


Land of All

by Sporadicx



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Azure Moon with Sylvain development, Background Relationships, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, In Game Dialogue, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, POV Second Person, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Retelling, Self-Loathing, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 34,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24270055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sporadicx/pseuds/Sporadicx
Summary: His Crest is the goal for some of them, certainly. But he has a commanding presence, one that demands attention instead of asks for it, with charm and charisma of any natural born leader.Or: Azure Moon, with the end goal being Sylvain.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 24
Kudos: 103





	1. Chapter 1

_one._

You were warned about men like Sylvain from the moment you could speak.

Your father didn't so much raise you as forge you from the heat of battle. He held memories that shifted like gale winds through gaping fingers, looked backwards to your point of origin so that you didn't have to, nursed your breaths so they oriented towards the present moment the way your blade found vital organs and and soft skin without fail. But Jeralt was very much a typical father in one area, even though there was no way for you to know that at the time. Any man who so much gave you the side eye was dealt with.

Mercenaries come in many different colors, after all. You remember rotting teeth, beady eyes, bobbing Adam's apples. It is difficult for any woman in the field, and you were no exception. The only difference was the Blade Breaker at your back. But as your reputation climbed, the way your sword sang through the air and your expression didn't even as flicker, as the name Ashen Demon became known, Jeralt didn't have to watch so closely. A single stare from you was enough to send most lechers packing.

At the monastery, you notice, things are different.

You are no longer something to be feared. You are a point of fascination.

Edelgard, Dimitri, and Claude all battle for your allegiance, each in their own way. Manuela and Hanneman study you in a way that is unsettling. Worst of all is Rhea, who considers you a stranger and a long lost friend all at once.

As you meet the students, their responses are naturally a bit more varied. There is one in particular you notice before he turns to see you, with a flash of blood red hair and broad shoulders. Then he does turn, and his eyes glint, and he opens his mouth. Somehow, you know what's coming.

"Well, well..."

His words blur together. You blink, and feel something within you harden. Harden against him. You pretend your father stands at your back, and somehow, this boy knows. A small, smug smile takes the side of his mouth, as if this interaction is victory to him.

"I'm Sylvain Jose Gautier," he says, haughty and perfect. "Feel free to say hi whenever you'd like."

He is like the others, and yet like none of them. He confuses you, and as you select the Blue Lions house as your class, Dimitri is on the forefront of your mind. Sylvain is at the back, all smiles and dark eyes.

You spar regularly with Felix, who is all barbed words, but he takes to your style instantly. Ashe meets you with a tentative, uncertain smile. Annette and Mercedes do their best to bring you cheer and baked goods; you learn that Annette chars the bottom of her muffins while Mercedes' are pristine. Dedue meets you with a solemn bow and a heartfelt thanks you feel is unearned, while Ingrid speaks with a rigidity that even you hope relaxes.

But Sylvain asks you to tea or dinner at least three times, and you meet each with a stare. Someone always cuts him off, or tells him to back down, but he continues to meet your gaze each time. His smirk grows wider.

You realize he's testing you.

You also realize this is going to be a long year.  
\----

_two._

You can't help but feel relieved when it is time to battle bandits. War zones are where you belong, where decisions are made in a split second and something hangs in the balance. It is new to teach and critique others simultaneously, but the Blue Lions are quick to rise to any challenge. Dimitri leads under your guidance. The others follow well. You expect Zanado to have the treacherous terrain of a canyon, but there are stairs. There are signs of civilization that have been carefully wiped out. It is overgrown and wild, and you feel attuned to it, like you could call it home.

As always, Sylvain's words never match up with his actions. Here, where lives are at stake and blood is the end goal, you can scarcely take your eyes off of him. He wields a lance with an uncanny grace that compliments Felix and supports Ingrid; his eyes scan their weak points and you take note of them. In the mock battle, he was focused, and against the bandit here, he is determined. His stance is wide so he has wide range with his lance. He is not a toe out of line. His posture is perfect. And then he speaks.

"I had to do it. Don't hate me, please."

It's the first time he's bare to you, even though he doesn't know it.

_Please._

Yet his lance contradicts the haunted gaze in his eyes, and you see him strike, over and over. He protects those who he holds dear, even though they're small in number. He did his duty. He did it to the letter.

You think about his joke regarding losing his brother to bandits when your group arrives back at the monastery, and you wonder if there is truth to it.

Sothis murmurs to you about Zanado. She continues to do so as you watch Dimitri's exchange with Edelgard with interest. When you report to Rhea, she confirms it. The place is familiar, you knew as much, although Sothis still remembers nothing. You listen, but your mind is elsewhere. Rhea wants the students calm, but she does not realize the cost of a first kill. Yours was long ago, but hers must have been even longer. You worry about Ashe, Mercedes, Annette.

And you think about Sylvain.

Back at the classroom, he is the first you design a lesson plan for. He mentions horses, their love and trust easily returned, and you know you want him on horseback, so he can continue to wield a lance with deadly accuracy with his movement assured. You want him in the stables with Ingrid, who loves riding more than he does, and Dimitri, who might be the only soul who could keep him in line. But still, you think of the fight with the bandits. Each one of them took life under your guidance, and for many, it was their first. This stains your hands red more than anything else in your life has, but you remember Sylvain's eyes the most.

He complains about stable duty, even when you catch him running his fingers through a black horse's fetlock. It matters little if you pair him with Ingrid, or Dimitri himself, yet when he fails a test, his fists clench and soothing words only make him bristle.

You watch, and you wonder.

When you browse the merchant's wares, you buy a board game on impulse.  
\----

_three._

You are kept busy. The minor lord's rebellion is something the whole class must be ready for, Ashe most of all. It is cruel to send him here. He concerns you enough that he holds your attention. There is something too soft in the boy, and for all his ambitions to be a knight, he worries you for a time. As always, on the field, it's different. Ashe is strong in his convictions, no matter how much it pains him on the inside, and for once, you watch him and Dimitri the most during this fight. They step through fog, uncertain but prepared. Catherine is a menace on the field, her Relic glowing like a ghost in the mist. Ingrid is the one to slay the mage, and the field opens up.

The hatred in Lord Lonato's face will haunt you.

In the end, it is Dimitri who slays him. He insists upon it, a lordling under your charge. Ashe fires off two shots, but Lonato is well fortified with walls and armor and horse. What impresses you is that Ashe pulls back the string at all, lands true, and shifts Lonato's attention just enough for Dimitri to advance.

You feel an immeasurable pride. Ashe uses his commoner upbringing as a shield against his adoptive father, as well as the source of the courage needed to fire his arrows. Dimitri expresses regret and sympathy, and although you know nothing of being a king, you can't help but think that that is who a king should be. One who contemplates, and one who protects.

Sylvain, Felix, and Ingrid clean up stragglers with growing aptitude. Mercedes coaches Annette through her first healing spell, knitting sigils together with clumsy fingers. A glyph glows, and one of Catherine's soldiers groans in relief.

"You care about them," Sothis murmurs on a day of rest. You do not argue with her.

That night, you lay awake. You think of Ashe's choked sobs in the cathedral, Mercedes' prayers, Annette searching for someone. Most of all, you think of what Dimitri told you last month.

_You do not seem happy._

You didn't understand then, and you still don't. But you cannot help but link it to the pulling in your chest, the tightening in the sides of your throat. You close your eyes and see your students, first Ashe's empty-eyed sorrow, and then a shock of hair that grabs attention like an open flame and dark, whiskey eyes.

You push that thought aside. You think of what your father would say. Instead, you get up and start conducting lesson plans. When the sun rises, signaling not a wink of sleep, you head outside to the training grounds. You are not surprised to find Felix there.

"Are you here to train?"

You meet his eyes, and a calm settles over you. The thought of sleep settles to the back of your mind. Sothis is quiet. "I am."

The first time you spar together, you begin to feel peace. You feel at home. This, the in-between of fighting and companionship, something you scarcely had.

When you and Felix are finished, you talk a little before parting. _What do you fight for?_ The thought remains with you when you do an errand for Ferdinand, bringing a tea set to Lorenz. As you balance porcelain and ceramic, it occurs to you that tea isn't something Ferdinand and Lorenz only partake in. Sylvain has invited you several times (all of which you declined), and the other houses discuss having tea with Manuela and Hanneman. Your house seems to know you wouldn't know what to do with an invitation, probably from watching Sylvain try and fail, and this bothers you. You've only seen fellow mercenaries drink tea when they fell ill, and since you and Jeralt _never_ fell ill, you never thought to try it for yourself. You sneak a few pouches (you'll reimburse Lorenz if he notices) and try a cup by yourself.

"You've never had _tea_?" Sothis asks, her tone full of awe. You don't answer. "You poor darling."

"You remember tea?" you counter, sipping a cup of pine needles. It's _good_ , and you don't understand how water steeped in something from a tree can be so relaxing.

"I do," Sothis says in a haughty manner, and you wait for the inevitable. "...and yet, I do not. It is strange." You give a light laugh in response, and for once, Sothis doesn't take offense.

You stand up, and look at the board game you purchased, nestled in the corner of your desk. You get an idea.  
*

"I've been invited into many ladies' rooms, Professor," Sylvain drawls. "This, I have to say, is a new one."

You have the game set out on the table, everything in order and ready to play. Tea with the sweet smell of bergamot wafts next to it. You ask Ingrid and Felix for his favorite tea, with amusing results.

("How am I supposed to know?"

"It hasn't changed since we were children, you dolt. Oh, wait. Has it? He never talks about anything except girls and getting out of schoolwork..."

"Ugh. What's that stuff in Earl Grey, again?"

"Oh, yes, that's it! Bergamot!)

It truly is a wonder how the Blue Lions get anything done.

"I figured we could play," you say, and you take care to keep your voice especially flat. "If you're going around breaking hearts, you certainly have the time."

Sylvain presses a hand to his chest. "You wound me, Professor." But he does sit at the table you had pulled out for this occasion, and he smells the tea, to your relief, with a small, real smile. It changes his features entirely.

"Feel free," you tell him.

"Don't mind if I do."

He sips his tea, and you catch the momentary shift in his face. You study it before it disappears.

"You can start us out, Professor."

You shrug. It makes no difference to you. "Very well."

You expect him to crack jokes, make inappropriate comments, or make mistakes on purpose at the beginning, but he takes to the game like a fish to a stream. Each move is carefully calculated. You have played this game multiple times with fellow mercs and of course, your father, who taught you how to play. Only against Jeralt did you struggle, and now Sylvain is giving you a run for your money.

"If only you tackled your studies with such enthusiasm," you observe.

He grins at you, but never takes his eyes off the board. "Gotta keep you on your toes, Professor."

Of course, just like the sparring session with Felix, you win. It's by a slim margin, and you tell Sylvain as much.

He's still staring down, his lips quirked. "Can you show me that move again?"

You reset the board, and show him. He follows your movements, learning all the while. You wonder if you can apply this to his studies at all. Add Reason for magic, maybe, he has the build of a paladin but the intelligence of a warlock...

"Hey, Professor?"

You look up, and for once, his expression is serious.

"This was actually a lot of fun. Let's do it again sometime."

You warm up inside, and it feels ridiculous. Sothis, somehow, is silent, but you're sure you'll hear from her later.  
\----

_four._

You think it is all undone in the following month.

Sylvain's family Relic is stolen, and your house is tasked with getting it back. Once again, it seems cold to you to make Sylvain deal with it, even if he says he won't lose focus. You mentally add it to the list of what bothers you about Rhea. Ingrid is the one to inform you that Miklan is Sylvain's brother, not her, and it's like what happened with Ashe all over again.

But Sylvain isn't Ashe.

In the Knight Hall, he is in the library section, isolated from the others. He looks up at you with an expression that pulls at your chest, again, but this time, it hurts you. _Please, Professor,_ he says, and there's that word again, _please_ , and you aren't sure what he's asking for. You don't think he knows either, when he says his brother is one of the worst people he's ever known, and yet, he's still family. He exists in two planes, past and present.

After that, he hardens. He lashes out at you.

You run into him out in the town, playing with girls' hearts again, and the conversation turns to Crests and politics. You begin to understand him, that the wrath behind his eyes is unleashed by a pain that festers, but he remains unaware that you see him. He is a wounded animal, all corner and bite.

_You're just a spoiled brat who should pay for that Crest. Maybe I'll collect the debt._

You know he isn't joking. And maybe you should be concerned by what he's saying, that this is technically a threat against your life, but instead, something alights within you. You stare at him, even when he laughs at the expression on your face, whatever that happens to be.

He cannot hide from you anymore. Perhaps he knows that.

At Conand Tower, he remains by your side, but doesn't look at you. It's Dimitri, Sylvain, and you charging the front lines, with Ashe and Annette providing back up for Gilbert. Annette is in tears when you give the order, but they are different. Happy tears. Maybe a little bitter. You wonder when you learned to tell the difference.

Dimitri and Sylvain are silent as they tear through Miklan's bandits, both with ease. Dimitri is a monster in strength and Sylvain's a battering ram, with no regard for himself or the enemy. The two are a lethal combination, and all you have to do is provide cover. Felix and Ingrid clean up the reinforcements from the hidden corners of the fort, and Mercedes' hands glow a little less than usual. Sylvain says nothing as you duck under his lance arm and skewer an enemy that gets too close, and he gives you that cold expression, the one that no one can read.

When you reach Miklan, you begin to understand.

He is a hulking beast of a man, with a scarred eye and hate that crackles like wildfire. He spits at his brother, and the problem isn't that he's forgotten Sylvain. It is just the opposite. He can't, and Sylvain knows it. He approaches, giving Miklan every opportunity to stand down, and his brother lashes out with words that sound rehearsed. All about Sylvain's Crest.

"Shut up! I'm so tired of hearing that. You've always blamed me for something that isn't my fault."

You stare at Sylvain's back, with that same shock of red hair, and it occurs to you that he's more than just tired. He's exhausted, in an ancient and to-the-bone kind of way that breaks your heart. You replay that conversation you had with him again and again, even though you should be focused on backing him up. You begin to see Sylvain as a void that he fills and empties out again, over and over, without hope or faith for change. That pull in your chest is insistent now. Sylvain defeats him, easily, even against a Hero's Relic.

Miklan transforms into the Demonic Beast before all of your eyes, shrieking and knocking into brick and stone. The floor is on the top level, and the stone begins to give underneath you. Sothis shouts instructions at you as you jump out of the way from a monstrous claw.

You start barking orders at the others, as they catch up. Sylvain stares at his brother, and for once, he is unable to act. There is so much flickering behind his eyes, and for a moment, you try to single the emotions out. Shock? Rage? Pain? Grief?

The others shatter the beast's armor, and it staggers back, screeching with its eyes rolling back into its head. Before you can act, Sylvain moves, and throws a javelin straight into its neck. He meets your eyes.

_Please._

Your blade enters through the roof of the beast's mouth, showering you in blood.  
*

Dimitri carries Miklan's body back to the monastery, and Sylvain carries the Lance of Ruin. He stares at the Crest Stone inside it, casting a red light at his face, blending in with his hair. He holds the gruesome weapon close to his body as you continue your march.

Miklan was disowned by his family, and there's not much reasoning with Rhea, so you help bury him just outside of Garreg Mach. Felix, Ingrid, Dimitri, and you stay behind to help, even though Sylvain breaks the wet earth open with ease. Felix and Dimitri say very little, as you expect, but for once, Felix isn't snarling at Dimitri, or anyone else for that matter. Ingrid says a few words, but there isn't much to say. Not at a time like this.

One by one, they begin to leave. You and Sylvain remain behind.

_You care for the little ones._

You put a hand on Sylvain's shoulder, expecting him to throw it off and stalk away. But he sags under your touch, and you look at his profile, hair darkened from the rain.

When he walks back, you follow him.

\----

_five._

After Miklan's death, Sylvain brightens into facades and party tricks. It's blinding, like the sun, and you suspect that's the point.

He flirts outrageously with the village girls, the staff at the church, and with the female Blue Lions, at least as much as they'll allow. He tries a few lines on you, but the result is always the same. You stare blankly at him, he laughs, and then you part ways. Rinse and repeat. You start to observe the girls he spends time with. Plain hair, tawdry eyes, simple clothes. It isn't a wonder why they are drawn to him, and you marvel at how Sylvain doesn't see it. His Crest is the goal for some of them, certainly. But he has a commanding presence, one that demands attention instead of asks for it, with charm and charisma of any natural born leader.

"You're staring," Sothis informs you once, as you linger outside of the marketplace.

You swallow, and continue to the classroom.

He's skipping out on less lectures, at least. And he always pays attention when it's time for one-on-one learning. He sails through most of his lessons, but when he does mess up, you know what to do.

"You know what you did wrong," is all you tell him, and he peels through the textbook. There's a scorch mark where a failed fire spell dwindled out onto the floor.

He exhales through his nose. "I'll have to try harder next time."

And he does.

You obtain the Sword of the Creator. And then Flayn goes missing, and the monastery enters a state of emergency. After hours of searching for clues and conversing with Dimitri, you find Sylvain in the dining hall. He's rubbing his head. You had witnessed Ingrid smacking him earlier. And when Sylvain explains, you agree with Ingrid. The thought of Flayn eloping with anyone is ludicrous.

Still, you have to go through the monastery with a fine toothed comb. "Is it possible?" you ask heavily, even though you really don't want to, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Sylvain stares at you for a while. You're about to ask him what for, until he says at last, "I don't know. I was just making suggestions, and then I was seeing stars."

He was cracking jokes earlier, too. You dip your head at him. "We'll find her. Have you seen Felix?"

Sylvain gestures behind you, and you catch up with the young swordsman.

Later in the month, when you find Flayn and Manuela, the monastery rejoices. All the Blue Lions have become quite capable, with their first mission without their leader in tow. Monica unsettles you, but you have no time to worry about it. It's on to the next month, the next mission. Flayn joins your ranks, in order to better protect her.

The Battle of the Eagle and Lion. It goes well, much like the first time you brought them to battle, but it is different. They are different. Both opposing houses descend with a humble wrath, friendly competition, as Claude would call it. But your teachings had stuck. The Blue Lions win, soundly, and the feast afterwards leaves you bloated and satisfied.

Claude passes out at the table. Edelgard leans back in her seat, a small smile on her face. Dimitri stares at both of them. The dining hall is loud, with all the students eating all at once, and you take your leave early.

You expect Dimitri to linger, if for nothing else to speak with Edelgard, but he catches up with you in the Entrance Hall, where you speak for a while. About your smile, and about how he trusts you.

"Getting cozy, are we? Mind if I cut in?"

As a rule, you don't jump. But your face grows warm, a foreign feeling, as Sylvain arrives next to you. Dedue rebukes him, but you feel Sylvain's stare, and you can't help it: you're confused by his response to you standing with Dimitri.

He hates you. Doesn't he?

_Doesn't he?_

*

Remire Village. It feels like yesterday and an eternity simultaneously since you were last there, with three young house leaders rapping at your door.

People are screaming, feral and terrified, and houses burn down while your house can only watch. Jeralt rushes into position, but some of your students panic behind you.

"Calm down, Annette," Sylvain speaks, and it occurs to you this isn't the first time he's taken to staying calm, and keeping the others that way. But his eyes are wide like everyone else's, and Dimitri takes your attention before long. The dark energy you've long sensed in him writhes to the surface. All you can do is follow its lead.

Flayn and Ingrid rescue villagers. Ashe unlocks chests and fires arrows through the smoke. Sylvain, Dimitri, and you rush down the Death Knight. Felix advances with Jeralt, and Annette casts deadly fire spells behind barricades. Mercedes casts a flurry of faith magic, keeping everyone alive. Not much has changed in this regard, the roles that they play, but desperation taints every move. Tomas changes into Solon. You are left with so many questions. _Who are you, why would you do this?_ So many people dead. Dimitri doesn't care so much for why.

Solon retreats, and later, so does the Flame Emperor. Jeralt is angry, but not as angry as Dimitri.

Later, you remember how Sylvain interrupts the tension, breaking it apart like with his lance. With inappropriate jokes and a faceless smile. Who cuts at his demons? Who protects him? You suspect you know the answer, with the girls he beckons in and then turns away. His acceptance of his Crest, and the fate he thinks it brings.

After Flayn's rescue, Dimitri had noticed your smile for the first time. Now, Jeralt has noticed it too.

You wonder if anyone else has.  
\----

_six._

All of your students begin to have trouble at home. Sylvain is no exception.

Sothis chides you regularly in regards to your thoughts about this particular student, even though you don't get why. All he does is command your attention for moments longer than the rest and make you wonder at how he thinks, what makes him tick. He is picking up on reason glyphs at a rapid rate, and Felix, not one to be outdone, is starting to do the same. He asked to start learning shortly after Sylvain, which amused you. Sothis refuses to elaborate about the staring, though, as she often does. So you focus on the task at hand. Which happens to be a _dance._

There has been nothing in your entire life that would remotely prepare you for this.

Earlier in the month, though, Sylvain asks you for help, in a rare show of vulnerability. His brother's band of bandits are causing trouble on Gautier territory, and he's been called home to sort them out. It's insane that his father expects him to do this alone, like his brother's mess is something Sylvain should repent for. It makes your hackles rise, like one of the cats at Garreg Mach, and you immediately agree to help him. It surprises him, that much is obvious. You travel north, and as it gets colder with snow and the forest ground becomes treacherous to cross, this is more information about Sylvain you file away. All the Blue Lions seem adept to crossing the frozen tundra, but Sylvain is in his element here. He knows how to direct his horse over the rocky terrain, and the trust the two already share is incredible. You remember his comment about them, wonder if he spends a lot of time in the stables even besides chores.

As you battle on the streets of one of the villages, surrounded by snow and ice and cobblestone, you see your teachings manifest in him. He barks orders to the rest of his class, and even Dimitri follows orders without complaint. Again, you marvel at how Sylvain doesn't see it, the hold he has over other people.

When you return home and stop in the entrance hall, he is nervous. This baffles you. Sylvain is never nervous. He is as sure as the sun rises in the sky each morning, crosses the horizon, then sets, and is back at it the next day.

He hands you the Lance of Ruin, entrusting you with it. Then he shows insight into his brother and the political situation with Faerghus, and you listen with little comment, even at the womanizing minister part. Not just because you scarcely understand the complicated issues behind each territory, but because you've seen Sylvain around a battlefield and a game board enough times. Sylvain has never been stupid, or blind. And you have an inkling that not many stop and really listen to him when he has something real to say, anyway. When he offers prayers to the fallen, something in you softens. You know he has been talking to Mercedes, but it's so unlike him you can't help but notice it.

"Professor, if I could, I'd still like to buy you a meal sometime."

You tense. "You have another favor to ask?"

"No." Sylvain takes a deep breath, and you see another flicker of uncertainty. "I'm just asking a friend to hang out, that's all."

You study him. You hand the Lance of Ruin back to him, and his eyes widen.

"Professor?"

"You're ready now," you tell him. "You have been for a while."

For a moment, you think he's going to argue. But then, he exhales with a loud whoosh.

"Thank you."

The month passes in a blur, and for the first time in your life, you begin to sweat a little. It helps that not everyone is thrilled with the month's events. Felix is like a cat thrown in a tub of water. Dedue focuses on Dimitri a little more than usual. Dimitri, well, Dimitri thinks of Edelgard. Your father is on a mission all month, so you can't exactly ask his advice.

Rhea asks for a dancer for the White Heron Cup, and you're grateful for Flayn's enthusiasm. You throw her into the fray and hope for the best.

When the day of the ball comes, though, nothing is as you expect.

Claude is the first to dance with you, for one.

Dimitri and Edelgard dance past each other on the floor, lit up in gentle, golden light. It's wide open space, sparkling under glass chandeliers and dark banners on the walls, and your first thought is how easy it would be to die here. But then again, it would be just as simple to get caught as an assassin.

Claude is an easygoing partner. He leads you through stumbling steps and laughs good-naturedly when you pitch forward. When the song ends, Jeralt cuts in.

Claude disappears into the crowd as slower music spills into the space. Jeralt stumbles about as much as you.

"I haven't done much to prepare you for this, have I?"

You shake your head with a small smile.

He grins back. "Ah, well. We'll just be a spectacle."

Despite his words, the two of you ease into a sort of rhythm, one that reminds you of your lives together before the monastery. Quiet and efficient, but you never doubted you were loved. Of course, here, you step on his toes and he trips over your cloak, which would never happen on the field. You feel people staring, and the hairs stand up on your neck.

"I'm proud of you, you know," he tells you, and your mouth falls open, just a little bit.

The world slows down, and begins to spin. The people around you fall away. Tears don't come, but you partially expect them. How odd. You've never cried in your life.

"Thank you," you say softly.

When the song ends, you part ways. Jeralt ends up with Manuela, who lights up like one of the chandeliers on the ceiling. You feel a wave like the ocean Flayn talks about crash over you, and you escape into the night.

The air outside hits your lungs, fresh and cooling. It reminds you of nights out in a tent and camping cots, and you close your eyes. You were not aware what you breathe in could be filled with sweat and salt until you step outside, and the clog in your throat clears. Sothis wants to go back, but your feet carry you forward to the Goddess Tower.

The gatekeeper had asked you about it before, who you would want there. The answer had appeared in your mind faster than you'd like.

The stairs are something else to ascend. Even you are out of breath when you reach the apex. But the height makes you feel mortal, something you never knew you needed, the way Dimitri, your class, and especially Rhea look at you. When it was just you and Jeralt, it was do or die, kill or be killed, and even the quiet moments trained you to watch your back. So much has changed, even if you fight or train to fight day after day after day.

Jeralt is proud of you, you remind yourself, with the aid of Sothis. Then, why do you feel so weary?

"Evening, Professor."

You stiffen. You expect Sylvain to be up here with a girl on his arm, and you are not in the mood. Something in you is feral, unchained, things you've never felt in your entire life. You're ready for a fight even though there shouldn't be one, not with him, but when you turn to look at him, you are not prepared for him to show up alone. To look at you like you're the one he's come here for.

He starts rambling, and he knows it. You stare at him, barely comprehending what he's saying. The two of you are on mirror planes. He had expected the same thing you did, that you would be here with someone else, and you can't make sense of it.

"I'm relieved to find you here alone."

You freeze. You remember what the gatekeeper said. You can feel your own blood rushing through your veins like a river.

"Wait," you blurt out. "Me?"

"Well, of course!" Even sounding so earnest, Sylvain looks uncomfortable, his arm bent behind his head. He's nervous, just like he was after giving assistance to his territory.

You can feel your pulse hammer in your throat, and you swallow.

Then he starts speaking of Crests again, and the illusion is shattered. You can feel walls you have built your entire childhood rise back up. You remember your dance with your father, the way he looked at you in the eye, and said how proud he was. And he warned you about men like Sylvain, even though it felt so long ago.

"I can't even trust you," you say quietly, and you watch as Sylvain's guard rises as well. Two fortresses, standing together in the Goddess Tower.

"Heh. Okay. True, true."

You expect that to be the end. A crushing weight of disappointment weighs you down, and you don't understand it. He starts speaking again, and you look up from your feet.

"I've never regretted any of my past behavior, until you turned me down just now."

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. You don't know what to say.

Sylvain shuffles his feet and looks down at them, and his nerves are back to being palpable. You want to reach out, see if you can touch them. "I can't be who I've been my whole life. I gotta get it together and be a man you can trust."

Your eyes narrow. You wonder if this is about Dimitri and how he talked to you after the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. A wry smile lifts the corner of his mouth. Maybe he's thinking the same thing.

"I'll prove it to you."

You feel something open within you. Your face lifts, the way it did when Flayn was rescued and on her way to the infirmary. Sylvain stops for a moment, his eyes wide, and then he smiles back at you. You jolt. For a moment, his defenses have fallen away. His face is bright and earnest and open, and his eyes are so warm you feel it to the marrow.

He's so beautiful.

He asks you to go back with him, and it surprises him when you acquiesce. He cracks a joke and retracts it, and he extends a hand. "Let's get going before you change your mind."

You take it.  
*

He's a capable dancer, which shouldn't surprise you. He doesn't even tease you for your clumsy movements and stumbles. You can't keep your eyes off of him, and it warms you that he is in a similar position. He sends you out for spins and dips, and when you relax your shoulders, each move becomes easier. You fall into some sort of rhythm.

"I won't let you fall," he murmurs once, at a trickier move that reminds you of a dodge on the battlefield, and, funnily enough, you believe him.  
\----

_seven._

Monica kills Jeralt, and you fail to save him. Your entire world, as you know it, crumbles around you.

When you return to your room, covered in Jeralt's blood and soaked with rainwater and your tears, you slide down the door. You bury your face in your knees, trying to breathe, but hiccuping sobs control your every move.

"I understand," Sothis says, and you can imagine her rubbing her hands over your back. "Let it out."

You do. For the first time in your life, you do. You had managed to grasp at a fractal of happiness, and it was torn from your hands.

You think of the lives you have ended, the horrors you have inflicted, and reconcile them with the pain you feel. You cannot imagine happiness will come to you again.

As the day passes, though, and no one comes by your door, your sobs begin to subside. You get to your feet, and change out of your bloody clothing. The pain is still very real, all consuming, but it is possible to think of your class. You have to go through Jeralt's things. You swallow.

"If you need to weep, then weep," Sothis speaks up again. She has been quiet until now.

You shake your head. "I need to do something."

Dimitri finds you in Jeralt's room, and promises you to help you seek out revenge. You read your father's journal, and none of it surprises you. You understand the emptiness where your heart should be, the common knowledge everyone thinks you should have but you simply don't, the wariness you have regarding Rhea. But it brings up more questions, and for once, you have a burning need for the answers.

As you walk around the monastery, students from all houses approach you and extend their sympathies. Their words are soothing to your wounds, but do nothing to heal them. In the Blue Lions classroom, Felix and Sylvain are talking near the front door.

Sylvain meets your eyes, and your mind flashes with images of the Goddess Tower and dancing in the ballroom.

"Dark expressions don't suit you, Professor," he says at last, and you recognize his words for what they are. A defense mechanism, a way to make light, a weapon of facade. But then he adds, "But I'm... well. I'm glad to see you in the world again."

The truth from him is far more comforting than it should be. The three of you change the subject to the departed knights, and you are grateful. Felix and Sylvain know a thing or two about loss, and they didn't want to be fussed over either. Dimitri knows too, but he has not even begun to heal from it.

This becomes very clear when Monica is revealed to be taking refuge in the Sealed Forest.

Unfortunately for Rhea, you have not begun to heal either. You cannot be stopped, only slowed down enough to rally your house behind you. Dimitri steps up to reason with Rhea, and succeeds. You end up in the forest, fighting alongside your students – no, your _friends_ – and Dimitri steps aside to give you the final blow on Monica, who has revealed herself as Kronya.

Then Solon crushes her heart in his fist, and you are alone in darkness.  
*

"You fool!"

Sothis sits on her throne, and you look upon it, offering no excuses. This was inevitable, and Sothis seems to know it, even with her scolding. Neither of you wish to die. And you want to see your students again, now that Kronya is dead and your rage has cleared.

You want to see Sylvain again.

Sothis meets your hand with hers, your power glows, and you tear open the sky.  
*

After Solon meets his end and you collapse in the forest, you wake up briefly in Rhea's lap. You stir, and her hand combs through your hair. She sings, softly. You succumb to darkness one more time.  
*

You wake up in your bed, with no memory of getting there. You groan, and then finger through your hair. It's so... _light._ You can't help but think it's the last thing you have of Sothis.

The quiet is unsettling, but not quite as unsettling as your memories of Rhea. You leave your room in more of a haste than usual.

When you find Sylvain, he gawks at you. It's clear he struggles to find words in your presence, and you are too aware of your appearance. Surely it doesn't help matters.

He exhales. "I swear, it's like you're a completely different person."

_It's still me,_ you want to say, but it feels like a lie on your tongue. You can no longer meet his eyes. "Isn't it weird?" you say at last. And it feels odd to you. That for once, you aren't strong and sure in front of your students.

And he knows. Somehow, Sylvain always knows.

"It isn't weird at all," he says, and you look at him, startled. He's clearly reassured, and mentions how beautiful you are. You roll your eyes, and he hastily tells you he's joking.

"Don't get mad!"

You note that before the Goddess Tower, he wouldn't have cared if you got mad or not. You study him for a little longer.

"Thank you," you say only, even when he asks you why.

\----

_eight._

Somehow, everything only gets worse.

You sit upon Sothis' throne, and you can tell by Rhea's face that something was supposed to happen. For the first time since you've met her, she is disappointed to see _you_ , and that's more disturbing than anything else.

You remember your late father's words to never trust her too late. This is luck, nothing more. You wait for Sothis to scold you, even though her voice has been gone for a month now. You cannot see Sylvain from your spot on the throne. Your eyes are on Dimitri, anyway, and his eyes are unfocused. He has been complaining of a headache, and Dimitri never complains. You know something is seriously wrong, but you cannot determine what. You shelve Rhea in the back of your mind for now. Your house – Dimitri – are more important.

Then the tomb is attacked.

Rhea barks an order to save all the Crest Stones, and you do so. Sylvain, Ashe, and Ingrid are fastest on their mounted units. Dedue funnels one side of the staircase, with Mercedes providing support. Dimitri charges ahead on the other side, with Felix cursing him and keeping up all the while.

_You have to cage the wild boar. He's losing his grip._

Felix's words about their leader begin to sound like prophecy. Sylvain arrives next to you; there's a fresh scrape on his forehead and he's favoring his right side. You forge the sigils of your first healing spell.

"Don't," he says, panting. "Save it for His Highness."

"You need to get those stones back to Rhea," you say instead of what you really think of that statement, and you cast Heal. He straightens immediately, checking his range of motion. "Get going."

He stares hard at the Flame Emperor, who's waiting for them up on top of the banister. "Hit him hard for me."

You nod, and slap the flank of his horse.

The three of you – Dimitri, the Flame Emperor, and yourself – speak for a moment, and then fight. You now know Dimitri has all but crumbled, his sanity holding on by a thread. You do get one blow in, but then Dimitri shoves you aside and fractures his – _her_ – mask.

Edelgard.

You have never been afraid in your life. Your previous role as a mercenary suited you. Hanneman's research into you didn't have a single flaw, not one single error. The Ashen Demon. You disposed of your enemies without a flicker of emotion, not a single drop of regret or remorse. You have been sprayed with blood and heard death gurgles all your life, and many of them were by your own hand.

When you hear Dimitri's demonic chuckle turn into bursting, hysterical laughter tinged with insanity and hate, you are afraid now.

You lunge towards him, but he shoves you back. He advances, killing anyone who stands in his way, and his lance is a fraction away from killing Edelgard. Even Edelgard is not unaffected; you can see it in her eyes. You turn around and the Blue Lions are frozen in horror. Only Felix meets your eyes, steady and sure. He had been right all along.

Dimitri crushes the skull of a soldier.

*

Edelgard and Hubert escape from the tomb, and you usher your class out with Rhea, barely checking to see if Dimitri is following. Dedue lingers behind. Sylvain helps you the best he can, letting Annette hold on to his arm and Mercedes lingers close to you. Felix stares straight ahead, swallowing hard, his jaw tight.

Ingrid and Ashe walk ahead, as if they're running from what's behind them. You can hardly blame them.

Dimitri calms enough to be instructed, but you keep a careful eye on him. He wants to kill Edelgard more than anything, you know, and now the class does too.

"There has to be more we don't know about," Sylvain says, when the class meets.

_There is,_ you think heavily. But it's not your story to tell. All you can do is prepare yourself – and the class – for war.

On the battlefield, you deal with Hubert and the rest of the class takes care of the Death Knight. When it comes to Edelgard herself, you raise your blade against her, the Sword of the Creator whipping out.

"I would have done anything to make you my ally."

_Would you stop this?_ Your thoughts taste bitter. Then you are shoved aside. You stagger, and Sylvain catches your arm.

Dimitri's eyes are empty, just like in the tomb, and once again, you are afraid.

"I... we have all been waiting."

You have a feeling he isn't talking about the Blue Lions. The class is catching up, and Ingrid flies high over your head. She kills a footman that Dimitri hasn't noticed in his rage, and an arrow from Ashe spirals into the burning village.

Sylvain remains beside you.

Dimitri attacks.

*

Once again, Edelgard escapes, and Garreg Mach begins to fall.

Rhea transforms and takes to the sky, leaving you a responsibility you never asked for. You cannot refuse; you care about every last person left in the monastery. When you see her monstrous form, though, rage curdles in your stomach.

_Why are you hiding everything from me, even now?_

You take off running into the fields, and Rhea goes down under a flurry of soldiers. It cannot end like this. You need to know, you need to know, and Sothis is not here to call you a fool. For a moment, you forget that you are not alone.

Dimitri has gone mad. The two classes left in the monastery are busy with soldiers. And Rhea holds the truth of who you are. She has kept it from you, all this time.

"Why are you here?" she bellows when she sees you, and for a moment, you are back in the endless void, the one you had to rip open with a shining sword.

You know you made a mistake.

Then the cliff crumbles, and you are gone.

*

_The void whispers..._

_Empty eyes and false smiles..._

_A path forged by blood, sinew, and marrow..._

_You are less than a child._

_Another step forward, and the greater good..._

_You know I am the beginning. What will you do?_

_Wake up. Wake up..._

_Wake up._


	2. Chapter 2

_one._

Everything aches.

Your clothes are still sodden and soaked while you speak with the villager who fished you out of the river. Your mind spins, even more so when he tells you the truth.

_Five years._

You run towards the monastery, and for the first time in your life, you don't pay attention to your surroundings. You don't want to. You don't want to see how the world has changed, how it has fallen apart; you only want to see your students.

You are banking on a promise made somewhat in jest five years ago. It's, by far, the most unreasonable thing you've done in your life.

_All because of accepting a teaching position,_ you think bitterly. Jeralt, dead for five years. Rhea, overwhelmed five years ago. Was she even still alive? Were your students still alive?

You thoughts halt to a stop along with you when you see the bodies littering the way up to the Goddess Tower. In a sick, morbid way, you are reminded of breadcrumbs, like that story in one of Ashe's books.

You know who – what – you will find, so you continue.

Dimitri sits in a heap with his lance at the very top. Somehow, you know him keeping his promise is nothing more than a coincidence, and your still heart sinks.

It sinks even more when he sees you as a ghost.

When you finally convince him that you are alive, he is still brooding and distant, and you realize his insanity was allowed to fester like an open wound. You knew the past five years could not have been kind. But you expected to see something of the awkward, sweet boy you once knew.

There is nothing like him here. He's taller, his hair longer and greasy and matted, a hulking beast, and even missing an eye. Nothing is the same. All you can do is follow him to where a nest of bandits are waiting.

When they attack you, you can't help yourself. You bark an order, for Dimitri to advance from the left. He looks at you with that single eye, haunted and miserable, with a dark circle like a scar. For a moment, you believe you made a mistake.

"I'll comply," he finally growls, and you sag before a bandit descends upon you. Dimitri is already gone. You whip out the Sword of the Creator and dispose of the threat, but your mind remains on Dimitri.

Gilbert and Ashe come. Then Annette and Mercedes.

Shocked joy crosses each of their faces, and you begin to feel some semblance of hope. From behind the home where Pallardo has set up camp, you hear pounding hooves, the clash of swords, swooping of air. Your pulse jumbles in your throat.

Dimitri has already advanced onward, but a group of bandits rush around Annette. Mercedes is there, healing and firing magic you taught her, but they're both going to be in trouble if you don't –

A bolt of Thoron devastates the air, and an expertly thrown javelin from up above finds its targets. The bandits yell like baying dogs, with two of their numbers dead. Annette casts a Cutting Gale and Mercedes a Bolganone, and the threat is handled.

Ingrid soars down next to Felix, who grins at you.

"Fancy meeting you here. A welcome surprise."

It's the most Felix has ever expressed to you, five years or otherwise. A hesitant smile begins to split your face.

"It'll be nice to fight alongside each other," Ingrid says, heaving for breath. She has cut her hair so short. For that matter, they all look so different. Battle torn and hardened like blood to stone, in a way that reminds you of your life before. You feel heavy.

You hear a bestial bellow coming from close to the bandit leader.

"The boar," Felix murmurs, his face twisting in a strange combination of relief and disgust. "So it's true."

He tears down the cobblestone path, weaving between dilapidated houses and the dead. Ingrid follows him.

"Follow them," you instruct the two mages. "I'm going towards the back."

You still hear hooves clacking on the roads, and you know for a fact Ashe is picking chests open near Dimitri and Gilbert.

A group of bandits meet you. You fight on. Another Bolganone spell sounds from behind them, but it lacks the finesse of Mercedes. It burns wildly, sucking the oxygen from the air and slamming into the ground with the force of an axe.

Your heart does not beat, but you could swear it's in your throat.

You see the hair as bright as the fire spell first. The glowing Lance of Ruin you entrusted to him skewers through another enemy, and he falls with a gurgle.

"Burn until we meet again," Sylvain says coldly, and then he sees you.

He stops, and his eyes widen. His horse impatiently stomps his hoof into the ground, but he keeps the reins bundled tight in one hand. Finally, he grins, and you didn't even know you were holding your breath until he does.

"Professor! Has it really been five years?"

Fake. Fake, fake, fake.

Your mouth sours.

"You're as pretty as ever, and that's the only thing that matters."

Has he been hiding behind that facade again and nothing else for _five years?_

Something in you breaks. You see the Blue Lions' collective exhaustion, their haunted eyes, all in Sylvain's face. They have seen too much. Gone through too much. _And you weren't there for them._

You begin to understand Dimitri's mind.

It's a miracle that you manage to reach Pallardo at the same time Dimitri does. The bandit leader begins to retreat. Gilbert is trying to talk sense into Dimitri, but he meets your eyes. That single eye, cold and empty.

"You didn't plan on letting him get away, did you?" Dimitri sneers.

You don't hesitate. "No. I'm with you."

You don't fully understand what that means, but you know it's the truth.

Dimitri didn't expect that answer, that much is clear. He pauses. Gilbert looks between the two of you.

You find Pallardo again, and his fate is sealed.

\----

_two._

You all meet at Garreg Mach, at the crumbling Cathedral, and fulfill a promise.

Dimitri disturbs everyone, that much is true. He proclaims himself a corpse, despite everyone's protests to the contrary. He reveals the treachery revolving the crown, Dedue's sacrifice, and you begin to understand more. Gilbert pulls you aside, and explains the political side in more detail. No one can leave Dimitri after all that's happened.

Least of all you, with guilt consuming you like maggots from the inside out.

You head to the Cathedral first, after your discussion with Gilbert. You are not surprised that Dimitri refuses to speak to anyone, least of all you, after all you've seen. What does surprise you is that Felix there, watching him with a tense expression, instead of training.

He tells you you have to save him. You say that you will, but you can't help but feel you just lied to him. Felix looks back at Dimitri, scowling. You talk to more and more of your students, now full-fledged, battle-scarred adults. They have ghosts behind their eyes, scars you don't recognize, softer, echoing voices.

Finally, you find Sylvain in the gardens. He stares off in the distance, still in his armor, clothed in blood red and ocean blue. He meets your gaze, and you can't read his expression. He hides behind smooth expressions and empty smiles more than ever before, but he's also more somber, more serious.

"Hey, Professor. It's been a while."

You tense, ready for more of the same.

He takes a few steps and stops in front of you. "It's really good to see you again."

You can't speak. You swallow, hard. Sylvain's eyes trace your throat, and something flickers in his eyes before snuffing out.

"Gorgeous as ever, might I add."

You scoff. "You already said that."

He softens. That same something shifts across his face. "An awful lot has happened in these past five years."

It hurts you to hear that, even though you know it to be the truth. "I can see that."

Sylvain stares at you, considering, and you see a moment of surrender. He steps into your space and gathers his arms around you. You stiffen, startled. He's never hugged you before this, never so much as _touched_ you, if you don't count the ball. Your skin is on fire, your nerves crackle like electricity, and even though your face meets cold metal, he meets you with impossible warmth.

"There were so many times I wished you were around," he says, and you hear his voice catch. A single crack, that you know after the year you taught him can release an ocean. He drops his head into your shoulder. You turn your head, brushing your nose against the side of his head. A stone forms in your throat.

"I'm glad you're back," he says, and then steps back. His eyes are bright, and then he clears his throat. Recovers. "Your skills are worth more than a whole army." It's a save, a poor one, because it's not one he is accustomed to.

You smile, despite yourself.

*

The battle to defend Garreg Mach, at least, is more familiar.

It is more coordinated from the get go, and Dimitri is manageable as long as you send him to fight someone. The others follow your command without complaint.

Sylvain has grown in that sense, blossoming from your teachings. The others look up to him for leadership. He sees that you have your hands full with Dimitri, and his men help the others advance further than they would otherwise. He watches Felix, Ingrid, and Mercedes with a watchful eye that sees more than expected. Felix moves like a serpent, a lethal medley of magic, sword, and glowing shield, and Ingrid has streamlined her movements. Sylvain lunges in front of her to block arrows, and covers Felix's flank. He is not watching his own weaknesses, and this worries you. But it's working right now, and he has remained alive for the last five years in war-torn land, so you take what you can get and continue to cover Dimitri.

For a moment, you see a flicker of the house leader when he was a student. When Randolph advances on you, Dimitri lets out a warning shout. It helps; you push Randolph back. Then Dimitri comes up next to you, a towering presence, and a sick smile crosses his face.

He is ruthless. He kills without remorse, or thought. When he spares someone, it's for more sinister reasons.

You think of the people who nicknamed you the Ashen Demon.

\----

_three._

You kill Randolph, later, without permission.

Dimitri is worse than senseless. He is manipulative, maniacal, sadistic. You determine that that's the difference between him and you. You never prolonged pain. You administered it, quick and effective, and never drew it out for your own purposes.

Yet when he asks you to kill him, you don't. You can only behold his tortured form. You are born from war, and you administer it, but you are not capable of what he does to others. What he does to himself.

"I will continue to use you and your friends until the flesh falls from your bones," he hisses, and you believe him.

*

Up next is Ailell, and no one is looking forward to it.

Dimitri scares the others regularly, and Felix and Sylvain are both eyeing him as a threat now. You catch their glances. Felix is more obvious about his disdain, telling Dimitri that meeting his father would be worth the spectacle. Sylvain is quiet, but both men have adopted protecting roles in the Blue Lions. The tension coming off Sylvain is palpable. Something in him has shifted, and you don't like it one bit.

It all comes to a head in the fires of the destroyed valley.

Truth emerges from the heat of battle, and it accelerates when the world is on fire. Gwendal is someone the Blue Lions recognize. You feel for Ashe in particular, and he is there, wavering on the back of his horse.

An arrow flies. Sylvain looses a single fire spell. You hear a death rattle from the other side of rock.

You look up at him. His face is set in stone. The Lance of Ruin glows on his back. You know he grew up in the frozen north, where the cold is part of his bone and marrow, but you see the fire that glows into a steady blaze after five years. It is in his reason magic; it's in his desolate fury.

Dimitri charges forward, but even he falters in the scorching heat, with his fur cloak and obsidian armor. Felix is right there on his right side, despite his furious eyes, but his lord doesn't notice. Felix knows it.

The mages cover them. Ashe fires arrows into the other side. Ingrid swoops with Luìn, covering the rear.

Sylvain sees Dimitri's mistake before you do.

He strays too far into a group of the enemy, lance swinging with deadly accuracy, but the fires under his feet are relentless. He wavers, and a mage sees an opening.

Mercedes is struck by a dark spell. Her dress rips and she staggers, but she looses off a healing spell. Dimitri turns to snarl at her, but Sylvain takes off from next to you.

He turns his horse in front of her as a lance connects with his horse, and the horse screams. It shatters your ears.

An arrow sails into his chest, and your heart rips out. Dimitri continues onward.

For the first time since Jeralt, you pull back time.  
*

You cover Mercedes before Sylvain can.

She recovers from the spell easily enough, shaking herself off. Her gentle eyes are like ghosts among smoke and cinder, but she nods at you. Sylvain is agitated, watching for the enemy.

You realize what he's doing, and you want to scream at him. You are afraid for them, this class that spills together like a delta in a river, where they don't know where one begins and the other ends. They follow a wild animal instead of land and sea, and you cannot watch them fall because of it.

You are on the front line with Dimitri. When he sees you ram your sword through an Empire soldier's throat, he begins to listen to your commands.

Felix lets loose a spell, dispatches two more with his blade. Sylvain follows, moving with him in perfect sync. His lance closes off Felix's left flank, the area he tends to leave open. Annette sticks close to Mercedes, heals Felix when he comes close enough. Ashe and Ingrid continue to cover the rear, and for a moment, you begin to relax.

Rodrigue appears. Felix stares at him, his teeth gritted.

His father tries to speak to him "Felix, I –"

"Save it," he growls.

Rodrigue begins to protest, but Dimitri appears from the flames. He looks at home, a demon in ebony armor and blended in with the chaos around them.

If Rodrigue notices, he doesn't show it. "Your Highness."

Felix hisses, and turns towards the soldiers. "We don't have time for this."

"I agree," you hear Sylvain say. "We have a score to settle."

Gwendal is a former lord, after all. Gilbert catches up, and speaks with Rodrigue under his breath. Felix's father glances at Dimitri, nodding as he speaks.

The enemy advances. Rodrigue sets off blinding white light. You study the sigils, and your fingers begin to trace them.

Dimitri charges in the other direction.

"Your Highness, no!"

Gilbert's shout does nothing.

You begin to run, sprinting across the heat. It crawls into your boots and sears the bottom of your feet. You begin to use the pain, these feelings that you never wanted to have, and they fuel your each and every step.

Your blade snakes out. Blood splatters. Dimitri spills into a moment of laughter. You stop a few paces behind him.

For a moment, you think you've won. Gwendal cannot counter Dimitri's monstrous strength, and you begin to think no one can. Not even you, with Sothis as the wind in your hair and the river in your eyes. But Gwendal is a seasoned warrior, one who spat in the face of carnage and won before.

He moves with surprising dexterity, and so does his horse. His front legs shoot in one direction and his back legs the other, and he ducks under Dimitri's lance and strikes upwards. The shaft splinters, and then shatters. Dimitri roars, the sound ripping from his throat.

Gwendal's axe lashes towards you. Out of nowhere, you remember Edelgard, her lilac eyes shifting. You reach for your sword, but too slow, always too slow; you prepare to grab the light of Divine Pulse...

Sylvain crashes into you.

When you fall, you see his black horse in the distance, shaking his mane. The axe glances off Sylvain's breastplate, and you both fall. You twist so that your shoulder is underneath his back, taking the brunt of his weight. Despite your best efforts, he cracks his head on the burning stone.

He scrambles off of you, but he's wheezing, grabbing at his chest. The axe carved a crescent into the steel. You see no blood yet, other than the dark splotch in his matted hair, but the sound coming out of his throat is awful.

You lurch to your feet, and you stitch glyphs together. Imitating. Learning. The student, this time. Rodrigue catches up with you, and his eyes widen.

Your very first Aura hits Gwendal full force. He flies off his horse and hits the ground hard. Dimitri raises his broken lance. You should watch, but you scramble towards Sylvain. He's sitting up, but he's still making that awful sound.

"I'm okay," he pants. "Look after His Highness."

Your mouth collapses on itself. "I'm not leaving you."

His eyes widen. A trail of blood leads out of his mouth. You check his chest. His armor is dented with a gash in the metal, the cloth material underneath ripped. A cut bleeds lightly onto your hand. You think he broke a couple of ribs, maybe knocked into a lung. Mercedes and Annette are back with Rodrigue's soldiers.

You reach into your own strength, the power you have come to realize. You cast Heal, and Sylvain's wound closes.

He lets out a deep exhale, like he had been holding his breath all this time.

You look up. Gwendal is dead. His soldiers are scattering. But you stare at Sylvain, the one who complained about Ailell and took blows for others like he deserved them, like it was some kind of penance.

As for you, you keep seeing him die.

*

Dimitri receives Areadbhar from Rodrigue and shows a flicker of humanity, only to command a march on Enbarr. Rodrigue argues, and you can tell this impresses even Felix, but it's to no avail. Even if Fhirdiad is in trouble, Dimitri has forsaken his own people. You wonder why you're the only one who's not surprised in that meeting. No one in your house is surprised, least of all Sylvain and Felix.

The minute you arrive at Garreg Mach, though, before this meeting, Sylvain's eyes roll back into his head and he collapses. Felix and Ingrid cry out, but you are by his side first. You take a pulse and exhale. It is steady, sure, strong. But if he's unconscious for long...

Dimitri hasn't so much as noticed. He strides ahead. Rodrigue and Gilbert falter, hesitating.

You wish Dedue was here. Only he surpassed Sylvain in sheer bulk. Your mouth twists. But he isn't.

To your relief, Manuela and Flayn hurry out into the marketplace. They see Sylvain prone on the ground.

"Catch up with my father and the boar," Felix tells you. His voice pitches low and rolls like gravel. "I'll stay with him."

You exhale. "Thank you."

Manuela prepares a warp spell. Flayn and Mercedes' hands glow, and you spare one glance over your shoulder before hurrying into the Entrance Hall.

The meeting went as expected.

Afterwards, you rush to the infirmary, only to find the beds empty. Manuela is writing in a chart.

"Looking for Sylvain? He regained consciousness and responded well to healing, so I released him. He should be in his room, resting."

You turn around and head to Sylvain's room.

It takes you a minute to find. The students come to your room for tea. It's one of the few with a closed door, and you knock.

A moment passes, and he opens the door. He looks exhausted, with the day weighing in his face, but he's alive. "Professor. Checking up on me?"

You swallow. You wait for some joke about how long it took for him to get you in his room, but it doesn't come. "Can I come in?"

"Sure."

You close the door behind you, leaning on it. He moves towards the chair at his desk and winces as he settles down in it. He's shed the armor, and wears in the shapeless clothing they generally reserve for the sauna. You can see bandages through his shirt. Your eyes catch on the lines of muscle in his arms and pectorals, and you make the effort to meet his eyes. If he notices, he doesn't show it, and this makes you on guard.

You let out a breath. "How's the injury?"

Only a quirk of his mouth betrays what he's thinking, but it sets your nerves on edge. _Careful, careful._ You settle into old habits. He tells you he was cleared for service starting tomorrow, and you exhale anyway. He had scared you when he collapsed. Ailell scared you. So many things scare you these days.

And if you say that most of them don't involve Sylvain, you're lying.

You remember how Sylvain knocks into you, taking a blow that was meant to be yours, like you had done for Edelgard so long ago. He does not have the power of a goddess. But he does have a Crest, and you do, and you remember that tense conversation. His joking tone, but with eyes colder than ice.

"Didn't you want to kill me?" you can't help but ask.

Sylvain pauses. Memory rushes over him in a way that you are now familiar with, and this baffles you. You could not recall a single thing, not easily, before the monastery. Every memory you can summon is linked to Garreg Mach.

And to your students.

"I certainly meant it when I said it," he says heavily, and it strikes you that he doesn't even try to deny it. But then you remember the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, when he cut in your moment with Dimitri, and then what happened in the Goddess Tower. It has been changed for a while, what's between the two of you, even before you fell off the cliff. But you still want to know.

He tells you about how he reacted without thinking. None of you were thinking clearly at Ailell, that's true. You study him as he speaks freely, without disguises or pretenses. Your face warms when he talks about looking up to you, and adjust your footing as he talks about running away. His dreams died when he was young, when Miklan was cast aside for him. Taking a risk, you sit on his bed, facing him. You want to catch every word.

His eyes darken to molten gold for a moment, but he continues talking. You never realized how hideously cruel his brother was, even though you could still remember Miklan's eyes when you battled him. You never once asked about him, because it didn't occur to you that people could be more than marks back then. You want to reach out, push Sylvain's hair out of his eyes, and you don't understand the feelings inside you. They bubble up like a cauldron when Annette's cooking, out of control and churning like a storm.

You want to leave and stay forever at the same time.

Then you're on to the women, and you realize you haven't seen anyone with him in quite a long time. An unreasonable assumption, you tell yourself. Garreg Mach had been abandoned. The villages are only starting to repopulate now that you can successfully defend it.

"Hatred is probably the right word," he says when you ask about them. "But that's an easy answer. I don't know what to think of it all."

You stare at him, because you know that people can have ill intentions now. You begin to grasp the politics of northern Faerghus with a tactician's mind. You wonder if that's why you follow Dimitri, feral and unchained as he is. So kids like Sylvain didn't have to be pushed into wells, and kids like Miklan would never feel they had to.

Then he thanks you.

You start.

"For what?"

"Before I met you, I'd gone my whole life not knowing there was another way for me to live." He adjusts in his seat. His eyes are so, so intense. They warm you to the core. You remember borrowing one of Ashe's sappier books, and you read through it before tossing it aside. Foolish. It had made no sense to you, and it makes little sense even now.

"From the bottom of my heart, I'm glad we met."

\----

_four._

You seize the Great Bridge of Myrddin. Dedue returns, but Ferdinand and Lorenz are dead. Dimitri is beyond reasoning with, and Rodrigue and Gilbert are strained and pushed to their limits. So are you. But you do not have the luxury of showing weakness, not when your former students look to you for guidance. With Felix's request ringing in your ears, to bring him back to the way he was.

_How can I?_

You pour over maps in the war room, long after training practice is over. You know Gronder Field well, and you know that positioning wise, it will be the same. But this isn't a mock battle. People will die.

It's a relief knowing a messenger was sent to Claude, but you know you can't count on that. Messages can be intercepted, lost. You move pieces around on the map, frowning.

The doors open.

"Professor?"

Funny how Sylvain's voice is now a lightning bolt in your chest. You look up at him. "Hi," you say, and you sound foolish.

"Strategy?"

You nod, focusing your attention on your map instead of him, or say, his mouth. "There are a lot of pieces in play, and not all we can count on." You huff out a breath, tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Like our fearless leader?"

Sylvain's voice sounds so bitter, you look up again. He's looking at the large double doors, his jaw strained. His Adam's apple bobs.

"Yes," you say quietly. "Like Dimitri."

He turns back towards you. "How do you do it? I'm not in charge of anything, and I can't stand it. I can't even look at him."

You think of your conversation with Rodrigue, the night before. How you caught him in the cathedral, and you discuss Felix, Dimitri, the future. Your pulse roars in your ears. "I don't have a choice. I have to. You're all depending on me."

He is silent, his eyes downcast.

All of a sudden, you are bold. "You know how that feels, don't you?"

He starts, his eyes flickering in the light like wild game. "You caught on, huh?"

You think of how he barreled into you, how he protects his friends with single-minded ferocity. "It's hard to miss."

He laughs mirthlessly.

"They need me to be more than I am," he says. "I'm a good-for-nothing, like I told you, but that's not what they need right now."

You feel something in you sharpen, the core of you like a blade. "Getting yourself killed is of no help to them," you tell him, and for the first time in your life, your voice catches.

He lifts one shoulder covered in armor, drops it. "For our future? A better one? I disagree."

You say nothing at first. You know how deep Sylvain's loathing for himself goes, but hearing him say this still surprises you. You know nothing of comfort, of healing, you only know how to kill and not be killed in return. There's nothing you can say to convince Sylvain that who he is is important, he matters, and no matter what his parents say, he is more than a war machine turned breeding stock.

"Come here," you say instead.

"What?"

"Please?"

He strides around the long table and stops next to you. You can feel his questions rising from his skin. You didn't count on proximity: you're short of breath and the hairs prick on the back of your neck.

"This is us," you say through a lump in your throat. "That's the Empire. If the Alliance tries anything, it'll be through here."

Sylvain's eyes narrow, in the way when he's focusing.

"Our scouts have confirmed that Bernadetta, Petra, and Hubert will be joining Edelgard..."

You talk it out with him, and it's the first time you discuss tactics with anyone but Dimitri. Gilbert is a knight, one accustomed to following orders and not giving them.

He follows the map with his eyes.

"Ingrid and Ashe should approach this way," he says at last, sweeping his finger around the river.

You frown.

"All the archers are going to be over here," he points at the central hill. "Bernadetta will be too terrified to hold anything else. It will keep Ingrid safe, and they can both cover enough ground so we won't lose too much time."

You nod, slowly. "You should go with them."

"All right."

You both pour over that map for hours. His vicinity becomes something warm and familiar, like a hearth fire. The sun sets before you remember yourself. "It's getting late. We both need to get some sleep."

"Professor?"

You tilt your head at him.

He looks apprehensive.

"What?" you ask, rolling up the map.

"Dimitri should be doing this with you."

You nod. There's nothing else to say on that subject.

His eyes are cold with anger, and you hate seeing it. You'll do just about anything to stop it, especially when it turns into a brittle, transparent smile. The smile he uses when he's turning his hatred and rage onto himself.

"You're good at this kind of thing," you say quietly.

His eyes widen, and you hasten to clarify.

"It wasn't that long ago we played that strategy game. For me, anyway." You roll up the map, and you don't meet his eyes. "You have a knack for it. The others often look to you for guidance, even if you don't see it."

You don't wait for his response. You stride for the doors, and you don't look back. You feel a tightness in your throat, in your chest.

He doesn't follow you on your way out.

*

Gronder Field is, in short, an absolute nightmare.

You run your strategy with Sylvain over and over, like clockwork, refusing to miss a single step. Sylvain follows Ashe and Ingrid around the river, while Dedue, Felix, Annette, and Mercedes cross the bridge. You're left to watch the places Dimitri leaves wide open, and his actions are even more frantic than usual. Edelgard is here. Nothing else matters to him.

Felix knocks Bernadetta to her knees, and for the first time, he hesitates. You remember he talked with her before, mostly to return her bag and him wanting to learn a sword technique from her. Dedue moves forward to put her out of her misery, face grim.

You hear a clash of a lance against an axe. You look across the field, and Sylvain is fighting Petra, with Ashe behind him.

You hear a rush of wings. And it's not Ingrid.

"Felix!" You hear Sylvain bellow from across the field. "Behind you!"

Felix is still on the central hill, Bernadetta lying at his feet. He dives for the stairs and rolls down as Hilda's axe crashes into the wood, splintering. You see Leonie charging on her mount from the hills, and Lysithea, Raphael, and Ignatz pulling up the rear.

Ashe fires arrows until Petra is forced to retreat, and Sylvain is coming full speed towards Felix. When he reaches him, he extends a hand from his mount, and Felix grabs it. You run up the hill and counter the next blow of Hilda's axe.

"You didn't forget about me, did you?" Hilda pants.

Your mouth twists. You shove her back and loose magic. She screams as light consumes her, and she falls to one knee.

The wings stop flapping. They land near Dimitri.

_Claude._

Sylvain charges at Hilda, and knocks into her with the butt of the Lance of Ruin. She lashes out with her axe, but he dodges. Felix rounds on her, and finally she retreats.

Claude shouts at Dimitri, but of course, it's to no avail. Areadbhar flashes through the air and catches the magnificent white wyvern in the wing. The beast roars in agony.

Sylvain stops next to you.

"Hubert?" you ask.

"Ingrid got him to retreat," he replies. "Just Edelgard left, now."

"I don't want to fight the others, if we don't have to," you say.

"Agreed."

You both stare at Dimitri. He won't listen. And the rest of the Golden Deer are approaching.

You lunge at Claude, and Sylvain gallops off to herd the others. Everything has to be handled fast. Ignatz attacks Felix. You pull back time and try again. Leonie approaches Dimitri, and gets a spear through her stomach. You pull back time. You defeat Claude, and help Sylvain usher the others away from the Golden Deer. Lysithea's magic cuts close once, a Luna blowing up in the grass in front of you.

Edelgard retreats. The young girl, Fleche, attacks Dimitri. And Rodrigue dies.

\----

_five._

When Rodrigue takes the blade meant for Dimitri, you decide to not use Divine Pulse.

It's a decision that haunts you all the way back to the monastery. You killed Fleche with your own hands, and began to reach for the wheels of time. But then you heard snippets of Dimitri and Rodrigue's conversation. Heard Dimitri coming back to himself.

You walk with the troops, and oddly enough, so does Dimitri. He is quiet, sullen, but he doesn't rage either. Doesn't rant about Edelgard's escape. Doesn't give the order to march on Enbarr. He even agrees to set up camp, when the soldiers show sign of fatigue.

Felix is also silent. He lingers with the troops, staring straight ahead towards the monastery.

"I'm going to check on him," Sylvain murmurs.

You nod. He rides his horse towards the back of the pack. You can't stand to look. How will you ever face Felix again?

For the first time, you are enraged with Sothis. Giving you this ability, a god's ability to change and control lives, for all the good it does you. What about the centuries before your existence, where generations after generations of people cried for their goddess, and were never granted mercy? It was given to you without a second thought, like a gift can only be given in proximity.

Five years twisted your students into hollow, battle-worn adults. It twisted Dimitri into an animal. And now it's finally gotten to you, where you have used a goddess blessed ability to allow an ally – Felix's father – to die.

You clench and unclench your fists. The Sword of the Creator glows in its sheath, and it serves as a reminder.

You remember how Rhea put you on Sothis's throne. And you know her benevolence, her _favoritism_ towards you, was never a compliment.

These thoughts consume you, a hurricane of hate, even as you help set up tents and gather wood for a fire. The troops gather when last light falls, and you eat game hunted from the neighboring forest. Despite the large group, anyone who speaks can be clearly heard, and soon no one speaks at all. You stare at your hands as you sit on a log, opposite from Dimitri, who's given a wide berth even though there isn't a ton of room in such a tiny campsite. He doesn't notice, still muttering to himself, but at least not raving.

Felix sits away from him as far as possible. His eyes are bloodshot, but dry, and Sylvain sits next to him, Ingrid on the other side. You can help them in battle, instruct them to protect themselves and teach tactics and develop new skills to kill and not be killed, but you are helpless in the face of this. Of grief and fractured faith.

Someone stands up, and you only recognize Annette when the bonfire lights up underneath her face. You think of Mercedes' ghost stories, and you straighten. It's usually Mercedes or Ashe who will speak for the dead, but you have learned to absorb every word when someone speaks. You force yourself to think of the people you've killed. You have not been called the Ashen Demon for a long time because of this. You must remember.

But Annette catches Felix's gaze. She looks tiny and furious, with a red dusting across her face that has nothing to do with the heat of the fire. It illuminates her freckles, sparser and lighter than Ashe's, and it is the first time you've noticed them.

She begins to sing.

Her voice trembles at first, but gains confidence as the soldiers stop their meals and turn to look at her. Annette is a performer, and she finds her voice in a crowd at dusk instead of alone in a church pew. You know your eyes are wide because the smoke begins to sting. Ingrid, Ashe, and Mercedes are alert, but Felix's eyes shift with a sort of awe you've never seen on him before. It somehow softens the harsh, striking angles of his face. Even Dimitri seems to listen, as Annette sings of a new dawn and hope and love and other, soft things all of you so desperately need.

When she finishes, and the camp bursts into applause, you look at Sylvain.

He meets your eyes, and holds your gaze. The fire drowns out his hair in orange and gold, and you watch him exhale.

You allow yourself a single smile, still unfamiliar in its motions, and, after a moment, he smiles back.

*

When you return to Garreg Mach, Dimitri heads to the stables. Your stomach pitches. _No, no, please._

If Rodrigue's death had been for nothing...

You keep Annette's song in your heart, and Sylvain's dark honey gaze even closer, as you confront him in the stables. You parrot the same words, but for the first time, they gain traction.

"You've suffered enough," you tell him.

He lashes out, but instead of caving into brutish silence, he continues to talk. You feel his horrible resolve begin to crumble. You think of Felix, and everything he's lost, and his plea to save his friend. Even all the while calling him the boar prince.

"How do I go on living?"

You remember Rodrigue's words. They are a part of you, just as much as the decision to not save him.

"You fight for what you believe in."

He takes your hand in the warm rain, and allows you to lead him inside.

\----

_six._

Wounds begin to heal. Not all at once, and you suspect the bawdy inn down in the villages is involved, but they stitch together like a quilt nonetheless.

It occurs to you just how strong Felix is. You locked yourself away for a day when Jeralt died, but Felix leaves the door to his room open. He's not training, but he isn't lost.

"I think that if my father could see Dimitri now," he tells you, with the hushed voice of a secret, "he'd be glad he made the sacrifice."

There is a storm within you, and only a single cloud clears. You swear to never tell Felix the truth. It will be your burden to bear.

Sylvain is outside the knight's hall. He stands by the door, arms crossed. He doesn't notice you at first, because he's looking inside with a tense expression. You stop next to him, and he doesn't budge, even though he has to realize you're there.

He struggles for a moment, before he confides in you.

"I don't feel like I can just forget all the awful stuff he's done."

You don't reply. You feel the same. But you are capable of monstrous things. You have done monstrous things. You wonder how Sylvain would think of you if he knew.

"But if he's owning up to the past..." he trails off, and you know he's thinking of himself. Sylvain has his own demons. You know that the two of them will be okay, even if he keeps Dimitri at a distance for a long time.

You nod at Sylvain and head inside.

You do a lot to prepare for the Battle of Fhirdiad, and while Dimitri finally contributes to the war strategy, you still talk with Sylvain. He looks wary.

"Dimitri still doesn't do this for you?" he asks one day, when you bring the map towards him.

"He does." You keep your tone businesslike. "But I value your input, just the same."

His shoulders relax by an iota. "Aw, I'm no good at this stuff, Professor."

"Your awareness of the field saved Felix's life at Gronder," you tell him. Even Felix expressed his gratitude; you witnessed him pressing candies into Sylvain's palm and then eating with him at the dining hall. "And you kept everyone else away from the Golden Deer while we handled Claude and Edelgard. You're good at this, Sylvain. And I don't know Fhirdiad at all, anyway."

Sylvain searches your face, although you can't imagine for what. "Alright," he says at last, but his guard is up.

Something inside you aches.

*

As it turns out, there's no preparing for Fhirdiad.

Monstrous constructs that make Demonic Beasts pale in comparison are new pieces on the field. Dimitri, Gilbert, and Dedue can take blows from them, along with you and Sylvain, but none of the others can. You weave around them, but it's too easy to make mistakes.

Annette dies first.

A construct knocks into her, and her head splits open like an egg on the ground. Gilbert lets out an inhuman, guttural scream. You don't hesitate; you pull back the threads of time. You command Annette to stay further back.

Next is Ashe, who takes a sword to his side, but stays on his mount. He's panting, but no blood is coming from his mouth. He even starts trotting towards you. Until a piston cracks lightning.

No one sees him fall before you. You rewind.

Advancing on Cornelia, she reminds you of Kronya. They look nothing alike, but she holds that same twisted smile and dull, lifeless eyes that belong on the fallen, not a living creature. She flicks her hand in Felix's direction.

The ground explodes. Sylvain dives into Felix, sending him clear from impact. Felix rolls away and scrambles to his feet, and Sylvain –

A scream tears from your throat.

You ready Divine Pulse, because you can't live with this. You can't unsee _this_. But somehow, Sylvain is still on his horse, fire cracking from his fingertips. His face is contorted with savage fury.

"Your Highness!"

He holds his side, and his horse has a long thread of blood leading from its ear to the ground. But they're both upright, and Dimitri advances on Cornelia. She looks at you and starts laughing. You realize that everyone heard you scream, including the enemy. Your sword whips out.

When Cornelia is dying, you reach for Sylvain.

"I'm okay," he murmurs, but you see his fingers trembling on the reins. You know Sylvain does not show weakness as a general rule. To see even one sign means his wounds are serious.

Your fingers glow. He actually groans as your spell sinks into his skin.

Cornelia tells Dimitri about his stepmother and the Tragedy of Duscur. You are ready for all this work to be undone: not many could withstand this kind of truth, especially so soon after coming back to themselves. But Dimitri sends his lance through Cornelia's chest, as a mercy killing instead of frenzied slaughter. You head towards him.

Felix makes strides for Sylvain, his face drawn and pale. Soon his fingers light up, and you think that will hold him over until Mercedes can reach him. She works on Gilbert for now, his armor singed from the firing pylons.

Even though you're glad Dimitri did the humane thing, you feel Cornelia died too soon. There's too much about this enemy you don't know.

*

Sylvain is still incredibly weak when they arrive to Garreg Mach.

You have his arm thrown over your shoulder, and Felix supports his other side. Mercedes has done extensive work on him, healing enough to get him walking, but he still wobbles on strong legs and his face shines with sweat. Manuela goes chalk white at the sight of him, and ushers him into the infirmary. She closes the door on you and Felix.

"Why is he like that?" Felix says in a low voice. You aren't sure you were meant to hear.

You look into his eyes, and he does not look away. They are too bright, and you realize he's shaking.

"Why is everyone so obsessed with death?" he continues furiously. "I'm so sick of people I care about dying."

He spins on his heel and stalks off before you can say a word.

You stare at the door, your own fingertips trembling. You consider going in anyway, even though Manuela's working, but she opens the door before you make the decision.

"He will survive, but he's extremely weak," Manuela says, words heavy. "He has internal bleeding that I stemmed, and his lungs are battered. I want him off service for at least a week, but I understand we are at war."

These are more decisions you are unequipped to make. A mercenary turned religious leader. You remember contracts that Jeralt had turned down because you simply didn't have the experience to deal with them yet, even if he was seasoned and merciless. You leave in Felix's direction, even though he's long gone.

When you reach your personal quarters, you stop and glance over at the training grounds. Felix is most likely there.

You arrive, and he turns towards you.

"Sparring match?" he asks, as if your last conversation never happened.

You exhale, and take off your cloak. You throw it on the steps. "Yes."

It speaks a lot to your state of mind that he defeats you. It is very close, your training sword is perilously close to his throat, but he pins you to the ground with the point of his at your chest.

"I yield," you say, and accept his arm to pull you up.

"Finally," he says, and his eyes shine differently.

"Close one."

He nods. "I know I can do better."

For the first time, he mentions his brother to you. You listen. You know that Glenn must have been one hell of a knight, but hearing Felix talk about him puts him in a different light. He becomes more human to you. Hearing about anyone Felix looks up to makes you look at Felix himself differently too. So fiercely protective. Always looking after his comrades, even if he'll never admit it. He cares so deeply he sharpens his sword with it.

"Sylvain will be okay," you tell him. His jaw tightens.

"I need to talk to him about that," he mutters. "He can't keep risking his life like that. He needs to take training and class seriously. We all need to survive this."

Rodrigue echoes in your mind.

_You will all survive,_ you think grimly. As your penance, if nothing else.

\----

_seven._

Felix must have spoken to Sylvain, because you see him in the training grounds more and more. He volunteers himself for strategy, and as his wounds recover, he attends every last seminar. He becomes more focused, more driven. You can hardly keep your eyes away.

Ingrid, Mercedes, and Annette give you curious glances, but thankfully, say nothing. You wouldn't know what to tell them anyway.

Claude sends a message pleading for help, and the fact that he sent it before you took Fhirdiad is not lost on you. How can he have faith after Gronder? You think of Sylvain gathering your troops, keeping them away from the Golden Deer, while you and Dimitri attacked Edelgard. It's a strategic, yet risky move. You let a wry smile cross your face. Can you expect anything less from Claude?

Dimitri doesn't quite grasp it, you can tell, but Claude would take it as a compliment. He prides himself on working in mysterious ways.

You find Sylvain in the stables, tending to his horse. The ebony black stallion and him have grown quite close, and you watch as he pushes up the fetlock of the horse's mane with affection. You remember that Sylvain spoke about horses, so long ago now, and it disappoints you that when he sees you, a shutter closes over his expression.

"Professor," he says. "Derdriu, the Aquatic Capital."

You nod. Sylvain's restless energy is palpable here. It makes sense. From everything he's told you, he's used to being cooped up. Only venturing for the sake of war.

"It'd be more fun to visit with a cute girl on my arm."

You roll your eyes, feeling a twinge in your chest, but you realize he's staring quite intently at you. He couldn't mean... could he? You test him.

"Maybe once the war is over," you say. You meet his eyes, and refuse to look away. They look like bronze under a forge in the sunlight, with flecks of gold.

"Yeah?" His voice lifts, and it sounds like hope. Warm and bold, questioning and meek at the same time. "Maybe you and me?"

Your mouth lifts in a small smile, and his eyes go to meet your lips before he looks up again.

"That would be a good reason to survive the war."

The world is suddenly so unbearably hot. It's only Garreg Mach, and the sun shines, but not oppressively so. Yet as far as you're concerned, you're back in Ailell, with flame as bright as your Crest and thunder in your pulse.

You begin to think of survival as an ending, and not just a goal.

"Keep up with your training," you tell him as stoically as you can, but you've found as the war progresses, this is becoming harder and harder.

He grins. "Aye aye, Professor."

You feel his eyes on your back as you leave, preparing for the month ahead.

*

Claude barricades himself in the city, with Hilda holding the bridge.

Dimitri is taken aback by his strategy, but you recognize the flashes of brilliance. You think of maintaining similar strategies, especially since Fort Merceus is next. But it isn't the time to be thinking of that.

Dimitri and you head straight for Hilda, with the warrior Judith carving a path behind you. The other Blue Lions push Arundel back, and block the paths for reinforcements.

Hilda is exhausted by the time the two of you reach her, but she still manages to grin at you and make jokes. Make jokes, but she is surrounded by bodies of the fallen enemy. She protects Claude with a ferocity that rivals Dedue's. You nod at her, and continue to Claude.

He is on that magnificent white wyvern, holding position. He also looks exhausted.

"If only you joined the Golden Deer, Teach."

You stop for a moment, wondering.

What would have happened, if you made a different choice?

You shake your head. There is no point. Claude strategizes just like you, thinks just like you, but you think of a feral Dimitri and the mourning Blue Lions. You think of Sylvain, and how he looks at you, and how he's coming into form.

"You were always going to be okay, Claude," you tell him.

He looks away and says nothing.

Dimitri enlists his help in the fight ahead. Claude shakes his head. He can't leave his position, for several reasons, he said. Your mouth quirks.

This is the way it has to be.

Dimitri disposes of Arundel with one, quick movement of Areadbhar, when it's clear Edelgard's uncle is not forthcoming with answers about the Tragedy of Duscur. His final words send chills down your spine. Dimitri withstands it, endures the cruelty of others, and pride washes over you like the sun.

*

After giving you Failnaught, Claude leaves Derdriu. Dimitri is still flabbergasted, you can tell. All of Alliance territory is now his. He questions Claude before he leaves, but you know he never expected to be a king with this kind of power and reach. Two thirds of Fodlan is his to command.

You convince him to set up camp outside Derdriu, not that that takes much effort these days. Faerghus's response to Claude's plea for help was so fast, that there's still daylight left. People flock back to the city in droves, now that it's safe to return to their homes.

The troops start to set up tents, and the Blue Lions move to join them. You catch Sylvain's hand before he can join them, and your stomach flutters with butterfly nerves.

He tilts his head, and you pull.

"I want to show you something," you say.

You have been to Derdriu twice, and both were during your time as a mercenary. It's so distant for you, like a dream you can't quite catch. The cobblestone paths are familiar, but you don't recognize the merchant stalls or the homes. Did you spend most of your time looking at your feet, avoiding questioning gazes? You make an effort to look about, take in the morning sky. You want to remember the places you see this time.

Sylvain's eyes are wide with wonder as you pull him through the main gates.

"Professor..."

"You're right," you say. "It's not the same if you're battling."

He nods, but his eyes are still so wide. You think of the dance at the ball, so many years ago for him and a short jump in time for you. You let go of his hand, and your fingers curl around his bicep, digging underneath his plates of armor.

He meets your gaze. "What are you doing?"

You shrug. "Girl on your arm."

He lets out one startled burst of laughter, and in response, your lips curl up in the biggest smile you ever remember wearing. You know because your face hurts; the curve feels unnatural. You follow him into the Aquatic Capital, showing him empty merchant stalls and houses, the flow of the sea against the dock, how the sun kisses brick instead of concrete and mud. He takes in all of it, his lips moving as he commits the sights to memory.

"Professor."

He looks at you. For some reason, Sylvain never stops with titles. Even with Dimitri, his childhood friend. It is like he always notices the difference between two people, a rise in station or a girl for one night in his bed. You swallow.

His face softens for a single moment of honesty, and you take it. He tugs on your arm, keeping his eyes on you instead of the city.

\----

_eight._

Sylvain has a girl on either arm the next day.

You find him in the marketplace while picking up tea and gifts and an umpteenth battalion. It catches you off guard. You stare, bemused, and a painful sensation starts up in your chest. He sees you staring at him, and he avoids your gaze. That's a little more odd.

The main difference, you note, is that Ingrid and Felix have the same mayhem on their minds.

"I'm going to stab him," Felix mutters when you settle down to eat with both of them. You sit at a table on the opposite end of the dining hall as Sylvain.

"It's not worth it," Ingrid hisses. "Ah, who am I kidding. I'll be your second."

"He's not slacking with his training, at least," you offer. It's true. He spent several hours sparring with Felix, and then spent time studying strategy and magic in the library.

The looks you receive in return are equal parts furious and pitying.

"Professor," Ingrid says.

Felix stands up with his tray in hand. "I'm not going to be here for this conversation," he says. "I'll eat at the training grounds."

He stalks off.

Ingrid watches him leave, and then sighs. "He's self-destructing," she tells you.

You blink. "I've seen Felix skip meals before," you point out. "That's actually progress."

Ingrid sighs again, but this one stretches out several beats longer than the last. "Not Felix, Professor. I'm talking about Sylvain."

You blink again. Apparently, today is a day of repeat performances.

"I'm surprised it took him this long, honestly," you tell her. "He must be in a better mood these days."

Ingrid looks a lot like you hit her over the head with your dining tray.

"It doesn't bother you?"

You open your mouth to respond _of course not_ , but that same pulling in your chest makes you pause. You glance over at Sylvain. He's looking at you. The fine hairs of your neck stand on end, but he averts his gaze as soon as your eyes land on him, finishing up eating in large gulps and leaving as well.

"I don't know," you admit.

Ingrid sits without moving for a moment, even though her tray is still over half full. Not very Ingrid. "I know Sylvain very well."

You nod. You know this.

"He's rejecting you before you reject him," she said finally. "That's all I'll say."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Think about it," she says. "And I'll probably punch him in the meantime."

She gets up to leave before you can say anything else.

You poke at your food. You have lost your appetite. You sit and think instead.

Sylvain never did see his own charisma and charm, his effortless sense of command, the way he could detect beauty in the most unlikely of places. He was a seasoned warrior, a brutal terror on the battlefield without effort, yet shy and nervous at the Goddess Tower. The Goddess Tower. You swallow. Does he even remember that?

_He does,_ a little voice says inside you, and you jump. You haven't heard a voice since you woke up. Sothis is long gone. She isn't supposed to speak to you anymore.

That voice sounds like _you_.

You get up and head to the training grounds.

Felix looks up from his work with the training dummy, his eyes narrowing with wariness as you close the door behind you.

"I'm not going to talk to you about him or give you advice or whatever," he warns.

You fight the urge to smile. "That's fine," you tell him. You take a training sword. "I just really need to hit something. Are we going to spar or are you going to make me use a dummy?"

Felix studies you, before giving a small smile. "Good thing I find you a worthy partner."

When the spar starts, you end up channeling your frustrations into the match. Your attacks are vicious and focused, but Felix has gained experience like he collects it for sport. You battle non-stop for several minutes, and he matches your ferocity with his own.

The training door opens and then closes, but you barely notice.

Felix makes a single mistake. You capitalize on it, knocking his right foot from underneath him, and that sends him sprawling to the ground. You point your blade at his throat.

"Yield," you hiss.

"I yield," he says, grumbling, but his eyes look past you to the training grounds door.

Sylvain stands there, watching. For whatever reason, you feel a blush climbing your neck. Its heat isn't entirely unwelcome, and you don't understand it.

You hold out a hand to help Felix to his feet, still staring at Sylvain.

"Remind me not to get on your bad side," he says, louder than usual, and you suspect it's for Sylvain's benefit. "You fight like a demon when you're angry."

The heat spreads to your face. And Felix says he doesn't want to get involved?

"I'm leaving," you say.

Sylvain says nothing, and he doesn't meet your eyes. Felix throws Sylvain one of the training lances, and the other man catches it without effort.

"You are an _idiot_ ," you hear Felix bark in that same stage voice as you leave.

*

The next target is Fort Merceus, and strategizing for it makes your brain hurt. The only sort of experience you have for this kind of structure is Arianrhod, which still pales in comparison to this massive structure. You have to account for any changes, any unknown variables... thoughts of Sylvain flee out of your mind, because it's going to be a miracle if all of you get out of this alive.

After several hours in the war room, you, Dimitri, and Gilbert leave together. They both look exhausted.

"Sleep," you tell them. "I'll check on our men."

Dimitri rubs his good eye. "You need rest too, Professor."

You have talked with him more, and your relationship seems to be mending. You're even going to the sauna together from time to time, to discuss the Kingdom and rest exhausted muscles. You give him a small smile, one he readily returns. "I'll rest at some point. I promise."

"We can't do this without you."

You know it all too well. You feel something heavy weighing down your smile.

"Professor?"

Dimitri has his head tilted, and you feel he is appraising you. You don't fidget, as a general rule, but this is the closest you've come.

"Yes?"

He scratches the back of his neck, and you know that means he's uncomfortable. "Is there something between you and Sylvain?"

You freeze. You struggle with speaking, something that never happens, and you wonder if you should say anything at all. To your gratification, your tone doesn't so much as lift. "Doesn't appear so to me."

He fidgets now, and you almost feel bad.

"He's been a dear friend of mine since we were children," he says at last. "But as a general rule, he never lets anyone too close."

"Because of his Crest," you can't help but say. You flinch. You control your words even better than a sword. You don't engage in such talk. Ever.

"I'm not so sure."

_Then again, that's just an easy answer. I'm not sure what to think about it all._

Dimitri squares his shoulders. "I'm no expert on the matter," he says. "But Sylvain is always protecting something. Whether it's himself or someone else is anyone's guess. I'm not sure if he himself knows. That's all I can say."

You realize, as awkward as this is, that Sylvain's closest friends are trying to help you. They take your side.

You take a deep breath. "Thank you, Dimitri."

"Don't mention it," he mutters, turning away. "It's nothing. He's better at this kind of thing than me, anyway."

_Is he?_ you almost ask. _I'm not._

How pathetic this is, that the boar prince turned King of Unification is giving you advice on how to deal with _Sylvain_.

Your father warned against men like him. With the tugging in your chest, now painful, you understand why.

You make the rounds in the monastery. When you see his red hair glinting in the sunlight, near the gatekeeper in the marketplace, you suck it up and go talk to him.

His eyes are back to being guarded, the smile on his face fake. You put up your own walls, your own defenses. Just because you're beginning to feel things doesn't mean you can't lock them away just as easily, and you do.

He makes some asinine comparison with seizing Fort Merceus to asking a girl out on a date, and you withhold the urge to roll your eyes – or even better, hit him over the head with the hilt of the Sword of the Creator. He continues to talk about it, and you recognize that he's rambling. He does that whenever he's uncomfortable, and you wonder what exactly Felix told him.

_You break down her defenses, and then you make your move._

You stop, thinking. "You might be right about that," you say, distracted, barely paying attention.

His eyes, though, are a challenge. "I knew you'd get it, Professor." Then he comments about Dimitri, and his lack of prowess with ladies, and your eyes narrow. You lose your train of thought.

"You know me, though. I'm more comfortable to follow than to lead."

Felix is right. He _is_ an idiot.

"That's not true," you snap, and you barely recognize yourself. "You've helped me with strategy plenty the past few months. You've had a hand in keeping your fellow soldiers alive."

He lifts one armored shoulder, and drops it. His smile is so brittle you are sure you can shatter it with a single word. "You've been spending a lot of time with His Highness, though. The real leader. Can't blame you. He's rather dashing now that he isn't fit to kill us all." His teeth slip beyond his lips. He is feral and barely chained. "I figured the sauna would be a bit... _steamy_ for the two of you, though."

You take a couple of handkerchiefs out of the pockets in your cloak. His eyes dart to your hands, and you grab his gloved hand. Force them inside his fists. Take a step back.

You summon the coldest voice you can manage, one that rivals the arctic of Gautier and Sreng lands. You are relieved that it comes easily. "Dimitri is behind in his training, and the sauna helps his muscles recover quickly," you tell him. "Not to mention that, unlike you, he can handle the heat."

Anger slips into his eyes like a hasty storm, but they clear almost instantly.

"We need him ready to lead," you finish. "And you all need to be ready to follow his example."

You turn and leave before Sylvain can say another word.

*

You head to your quarters. It's not until you open the door, slip inside, and lock it that you realize that you're shaking.

You don't even make it to your desk. You slide down the wall, just like you had done when Jeralt died. You fold your knees to your chest and rest your chin on them, closing your eyes. You take deep breaths, and when you lift your head again, you stare at your hands. Maybe Sylvain had the right of it. You don't know how to behave in situations like this. How can you expect him to know?

Your eyes settle on your desk, and you start. You left one of the drawers ajar when you went through your desk after you woke up, and never noticed. Looking at it from the floor, though, you see the corner of Jeralt's journal.

You stand up and sit down at your desk. You pull out the journal. You flip through its pages, and even after all this time, the words jump out easily for you. How funny it is that you can't remember so much of what Jeralt has said to you during your time as a mercenary, but you can almost recite this journal word for word. You read it over and over after his death, committing the words to memory, and this wouldn't hurt so badly if you couldn't clearly remember the ball, too. How he held you and danced with you. How he tripped over your feet, and you his. How he told you he was proud of you.

Your lashes are wet, and you rub the back of your hand over them.

You unlock the door and open it, just enough to see the sky. It's dusk; the monastery begins to grow dark. The grass shines golden instead of silver, but it won't be that way for long. This time of year gets so cold at night, and you close your door.

You miss Sothis. You miss Jeralt. You miss a lot of things.

_Break down her defenses._

You still, thinking. The journal is still in your hands. You sit cross-legged in bed, taking turns between reading through familiar words you know so well and staring into blank space. Then you make a decision.

You throw open your door into the night. The sun has long since set; you must have been thinking for hours. You barely remember where Sylvain's room is but you figure it out soon enough, refusing to ask anyone where it is. You can't deal with questions, especially from Ingrid, Felix, and Dimitri. It helps that, in part of the monastery's reconstruction, the rooms of students who did not return had the doors open. As a sort of remembrance, the best memorial that can be offered.

You knock several times on Sylvain's door when you find it, loud and thundering. He answers quicker than you expect, and you note that even though he's taken off his armor, he's still dressed. There's a candle going on his desk, glittering with bold flame.

He's controlled his magical ability enough for something small, like a candle. The professor part of you is proud, proud enough to be distracted.

He gives you a cocksure smile, one that fans the flame within you. "After my room at this hour, Professor? People will _definitely_ talk."

You don't so much as bat an eye.

"I'm giving you homework," you say flatly.

His gaze shifts. "I'm a bit old for that, Professor, don't you think? Old and battle-weary?"

You shove the book into his hands. "I'm not training you, or giving you one on one sessions, until you do." You think for a moment. "I won't even bring you on auxiliary missions."

Sylvain protests. "You can't do that!"

"You follow, not lead, right?" Your tone is a shade of relentless you don't feel. It's the best you have. Ruthless and emotionless, when your insides brew so violently that you shake. Thankfully, Sylvain doesn't notice. His eyes are wide with panic. He is thinking of protecting you, protecting the others. Your mouth twists with a sardonic edge. More devout than a priestess. The irony cuts deep.

"If this is about today, I'm sorry–"

You soften at that, and you almost lose courage. You swallow. You resist the urge to pull on the threads of time, and you look at him.

You exhale. "You're a fast reader. Tomorrow."

He tries again. "Professor–"

"You're right. You need to sleep, if you're going to be useful," you say. You are the Ashen Demon now, not Byleth, and it should be a relief. It isn't. "Three days. Read it."

You slam his own door in his face.

You run a hand over your face as you head back to your room. You are the Ashen Demon, the acting archbishop, the tactician for Kingdom forces.

And you're terrified.


	3. Chapter 3

_one._

You don't get a wink of sleep, and are out of bed at first light. When you open your door, you see Felix striding towards the training grounds. You hesitate, then follow him. Why not, right?

Felix narrows his eyes when you catch up with him. "You're never up this early. Not since..."

"Over five years ago," you agree, grabbing a sword off the wall.

He lets out a long-suffering sigh. "I am _not_ speaking to him again, Professor, but if you want me to pommel him in training, I can arrange for that."

You open your mouth to tell him _no_ , but stop to think about it.

"Do what you deem necessary," you say. "We need him battle ready at all times."

Felix shrugs, but his smile is wicked and sharp. "Fair enough."

You study him for a moment. Felix offering to help at all is so... well, _not_ Felix that you appraise him for a moment. "Want to learn a new sword technique?"

His eyes flash. "You've been holding back on me?"

You shake your head. "No. I've been messing around with lances to help the others out. And I remembered something my father taught me a long time ago." That much is true. You cling to the rare memory, knowing its like could very well not come up again. "It can be applied to swords to maximize damage output, and keep you better defended against lances."

Felix averts his gaze, but then consciously looks back at you and holds eye contact. "I'm listening."

The two of you work on it until the tournament keeper walks in, followed by Catherine. When you go to leave, Felix stays behind, repeating what he's learned.

"Don't forget to eat," you call.

"I won't," comes Felix's peevish reply.

You eat lunch with Flayn and Dimitri. It's much later than you thought. Your stomach squeezes on itself, but you force yourself to eat what's on your plate. It's fish, because of course it is. Dimitri is much more vocal than usual, chatting with Flayn, and you observe their easy conversation. You look around the dining hall, but the mess of red hair you're accustomed to is nowhere to be found.

"Your Highness." Ingrid approaches them. "Have you seen Sylvain anywhere?"

Dimitri shakes his head. "I have not. How peculiar. He's generally out and about by now."

"Perhaps training with Felix," Flayn suggests. "He's been taking his regime more seriously."

Ingrid bites her lip. "I'll check."

You finish your last few bites of food. Uncertainty squeezes your stomach like a fist. You stand up, and dismiss yourself.

"Do you know where Sylvain has gone, Professor?"

You shake your head, and it feels like a lie, even though it technically isn't one. "No. I don't."

Sylvain shows up the next day for training drills. He looks exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes that only Dimitri could rival. You wince. You had not wanted him staying up all night reading it. You certainly don't want him hurting himself.

You train Dimitri first. He's training so well that he's on par with the rest of the Blue Lions again, and you tell him as much. He doesn't meet your gaze, but you can tell he is pleased. "It's the least I can do," he murmurs.

You call up Felix next.

"Sylvain dragged me out for training late yesterday," Felix complains, but his eyes are bright. "I used your technique on him, Professor. Disarmed him, just like you said it would. The look on his face was priceless."

Sylvain was probably tired yesterday, too, but you taught Felix a useful skill. You nod at him. "We'll focus on those techniques today, just to make sure it sticks."

When you're done and head back to the war room, you rest a hand on Sylvain's shoulder, tentatively. You have had time to regret your threats. It is not his fault you feel this way, that he drives you crazy. He looks at you with glassy eyes, but still more or less focused. "Are you up for a session today?"

Sylvain frowns. "I thought..." Then, his expression clears. He pushes his chair back and stands. "I thought you'd never ask."

You swallow. It strains your nerves to be with him alone, but he doesn't bring up the topic. He focuses on his lessons. He's shaky, to be certain. It takes him two attempts to get a lesson in Reason down, but never anything outright terrible. You end it early, and he doesn't notice.

"Thanks, Professor," he says.

You shrug, not meeting his eyes. "Don't mention it."

The rest of the day passes quite quickly, and you head to your personal quarters. You are also exhausted. Sleep has not come naturally to you the past couple of days. And there's still more to do: you've barely made a dent in Fort Merceus, and the day you must invade creeps up closer and closer, and you know the Death Knight will be there and that there's Mercedes to consider...

Someone knocks. The door rattles on its hinges. You hurry to open it, thinking Dimitri has news, or Gilbert...

Sylvain stands outside. Like that night, his armor is gone. The sky pours rain on the monastery. You blink, earlier in the day the sun shone with a noxious brightness. Sylvain's hair is plastered to the sides of his face, darker than shed blood. You stare up at him, and you are breathless.

That never happens.

"That was Jeralt's journal," he says, huffing. He must have ran the entire way here. "The child he mentions... that was you?"

You nod. Your capacity for speech has left you.

He reaches out with a single hand, and your eyes flutter closed as his hand reaches for the side of your face.

It travels down to the side of your throat, where your pulse hammers. You open your eyes, starting, but force yourself to remain still. This is just Sylvain, only Sylvain, the man who makes your pulse drum hard enough for you to believe your heart beats. You see his mouth open just slightly, and he watches your expression.

Lightning catches the sky outside. You mumble something that sounds like "don't get the wrong idea" and take his hand in yours, and push it downwards. You're wearing a sleep shirt, and your hands stop where your heart should be. Or where your heart lies dormant, whatever the truth is. His breath catches.

Because you know he feels nothing, where there should be _something._ You hear the crack of thunder. At least the storm is far away, you think numbly. That's another trick you suddenly remember from your days with your father; count the time between light and sound. Between the action, and the consequence catching up.

Sylvain steps into your room, and he kicks the door closed. He reaches for your face the same time you tilt your head up, and your lips meet his with a primal ferocity that rips a moan from your throat in an instant. He knows what he's doing and you don't, but that doesn't matter. Jeralt's journal hits the floor with a soft _thud_ , and your mind is a blank slate. You operate on instinct. You need skin, you need _him_ , and very little matters in between. Your hands push up his chest, over his shoulders, frame the hard muscles in his back, and feel them flex under your fingers as he curls around you, as if trying to swallow you whole.

You feel so hot, and it doesn't make sense to you to want more heat, but your fingers push up the hem of his shirt. It peels more than shifts; it's soaked from the rain. He helps you with a groan, and you feel his hand framing your jaw after you pull it over his head. For the first time since this all started, you see his eyes, smoldering with his own heat.

You both land on your bed, hopelessly entangled, and he strays from your mouth. His lips form burning trails down the sides of your throat, your sides, your legs. Your shirt hikes up, and the breaths escaping you don't sound like anything you've ever emitted before.

He's back at your face, hovering, questions in his gaze and a burning struggling to break free. "Byleth."

It's the first time he's said your name.

You anchor a hand behind his neck. "Please," you say, voice hoarse, and it cracks you open. You don't even know what you're asking for, but his pupils dilate until you feel you could fall into them.

Your mouths meet again, fury and brimstone, and no other words are said.

*

Afterwards, you find yourself gathered in his arms. He has his face pressed in your neck, still panting, and your breaths are shallow and wanting. You press your lips into his still-wet hair, and it tickles your skin.

"Does Dimitri know?"

You freeze for a moment, thinking of _that_ conversation, but then you relax. "About my father's journal?" you say softly. "No."

He lifts his head. "That was a pretty strange way of getting me to read that, Professor. If you wanted me to know your deepest, darkest secrets, all you had to do was ask."

You roll your eyes before looking away. It's not exactly a secret you're clueless at these kind of things. He softens, presses his nose into your temple.

"What did Rhea do to you?" he murmurs.

You look up at the ceiling, and breathe in deep. "I'd like to know that myself."

Another moment of silence. You take solace in the way Sylvain's lips move in a caress across your skin. You run your fingers over his ribs, pausing on the silvery scars.

"Before I ripped a hole in the sky, there was a voice that would talk to me. Sothis."

Sylvain's breath stutters.

"The progenitor god." You swallow. "She gave me her power that day. But Rhea was the one to put her there."

He remains quiet, listening.

"I don't have many memories of my mercenary days," you continue. "Sothis thought she's the one to blame. She only started speaking when I first met Dimitri. My real memories started then, at the monastery."

"And Rhea was responsible for that too, wasn't she?" Sylvain murmurs.

You let out a loud exhale. "I was never free, Sylvain."

He stills around you.

"I was called The Ashen Demon, because I never showed any emotion when slaying my targets. My heart doesn't beat. It's very likely Rhea determined my very existence. I didn't start to really live until I started teaching at the monastery."

Sylvain swallows. "I –"

You put a finger on his lips, hushing him. "I'm fighting for a different world," you say, and you take a shuddering breath. "Where we can both live freely."

He pushes your hand away and kisses you, again, this time soft and slow. Not desperate, not consuming, just wanting. He rolls you so you're in his lap, and presses his forehead to yours.

"Thank you."

_\----_

_two._

Felix notices a difference in you right away.

"Your grin makes you look like a fool," he snaps. "Stop it."

It only makes you smile wider. He spars against you and manages to defeat you, again. You feel as bright as a summer morning.

Ingrid and Ashe's own grins reach ear to ear. Annette squeals in a pitch that makes your ears ring, and Mercedes gives a gentle smile. Even Dimitri dips his head in acknowledgment before the group discusses Fort Merceus.

Sylvain teases Dimitri in the class meeting, like he has any right to, and you can feel heat rising to your cheeks. He drops the matter quickly, though, because Dimitri telling the rest about Edelgard is such a huge step for him. A plan is formed.

Dimitri's childhood friends push him in different ways. Sylvain, with that mild, self-deprecating humor of his, never losing awareness. Felix, with a barbed tongue and that burning desire to push forward. Ingrid, with her undying loyalty. And of course, the others follow all of you.

When the group disperses, Sylvain lingers behind with you. He presses his fingers to yours, and you hold back a sigh.

"You know," he murmurs after a beat of silence, "for a while there, I thought Dimitri was in love with you."

You can't help it. You snort. For all of Sylvain's experience, he sure is oblivious.

"It's always been about Edelgard with him," you reply. "I'm a support system for him, and we're close, but that's all there is to it."

Even as you say it, you can't help but wonder if that's actually true. His glances on Flayn linger longer than they should.

You hold on to two of Sylvain's fingers, and they curl around yours in response. He does sigh, and you look up at him.

There's a look of torment on his face, pulling like tug of war. In the meeting, there was mention of his father. As complicated as their relationship is, he still asked about him. You want to ask if his father ever does the same for his son.

"I did tell you I was a good-for-nothing once," Sylvain says.

You recognize what he's doing. The low self-esteem, the destructive tendencies. You swallow, fighting back the ache in your throat.

"You also said that you would become a man I could trust," you replied, keeping your voice even.

He lets out a shuddering exhale, and rests his forehead on the crown of your head.

It occurs to you that you've become a place of rest for Sylvain, and for someone like him, who never accepts help, this warms you from the inside out. You wind your fingers with all of his, taking in the warmth of his palm.

"Come," you say, pulling on his hand.

"Professor..." he trails off, with his eyes still haunted. He's back to these titles, then. "I don't know what we are."

It is the old meeting the new. The brash giving way to unsure and uncertain, swirling over-confidence becoming a vulnerable sort of honesty. It takes your breath away. A smile takes over your face, big and aching, and he catches it. He's struck speechless, and he can't keep his wide eyes off of you. But then you think of Edelgard, and your Divine Pulse. Your smile falters.

"I don't either," you say heavily. "We're at war."

He nods. He understands you, as he always does, and presses his lips to your temple.

*

Caspar, Linhardt, and the Death Knight await you at Fort Merceus.

You are too numb towards killing old friends. You read with Linhardt under the shade of trees and sparred with Caspar on the rare occasion Felix wasn't on hand. Your mind is nothing but a map: ballista on the fortress walls, wyvern riders lying in wait, fortified doors and armored walls. Sylvain was correct. You had to tear through the main gates, and it took all of your men to do so. It is you and Dimitri and your house, and you're on your own.

You have to watch for stray arrows, especially with Ingrid. Dimitri and you bark instructions and Sylvain ensures they are carried out, using his towering stature and striking stallion to command attention.

Ashe is the one to kill Linhardt, with an expertly shot arrow over stone and steel that sinks into his chest. He's up high, just like Caspar on the other side, and you hear Caspar scream.

You have heard this animalistic scream of agony on the wrong end of Divine Pulse.

There's a crack of thunder on the other side. You know Felix has sparred with Caspar too, and your heart sinks as you hear the _whirr_ of steel meeting flesh and blood and bone. It's quick. It's painless.

Just not for those left behind.

A ballista bolt fires at Mercedes. You're prepared to reach for Divine Pulse. You're ready for Sylvain to do something stupid and heroic, some messed up sort of atonement. But he doesn't crash in front of her, or knock her out of the way. He throws a javelin that intercepts the bolt, and Mercedes casts a Bolganone that takes out the artillery. Working in tandem, instead of as protected and protector.

Annette backs up Felix, watching his weak spots, and Dedue and Dimitri fight side by side. Ashe times his arrows as Ingrid flies above the Blue Lions are working as one smooth machine, not spools of differently colored threads.

"I can't believe this is working," Dimitri says as he spins Areadbhar and spears an enemy soldier through the throat. "The Stubborn Old General. Falling to us."

You can.

They carve a path for you and Mercedes to the Death Knight. Mercedes is quiet, staring at his mask the way a deer stares down the shaft of an arrow. You know the truth never came full circle, but you know what she suspects. You step just barely into her line of sight. Not obstructing, but not letting her in range of that horrible scythe.

"Professor," Dimitri says. You can tell every muscle is tense like a coil, even though he's covered in that obsidian armor. Felix and Annette catch up with you; Felix's coat is dotted in Caspar's blood and his face is set like grim stone. Annette is perspiring and pale, but unharmed. And of course, Sylvain is off to your side, resolute and steadfast. Ashe halts next to Mercedes, whispering in her ear, and Dedue casts glances back towards the both of them.

It's only right that you go into the belly of this beast together.

But you know how the wicked edge of that scythe tastes, and to that end, you want no one but Dimitri and yourself going near it. For the first time since Rodrigue died, Dimitri acts without consulting you first. He throws a javelin, and is met with the usually deadly counterattack.

But he's been picking up rubble in the monastery, training tirelessly, and paying careful attention to your teachings. Everything he's done since coming back to himself is for his people. He is prepared for when the scythe connects. He grunts and loses ground, but remains upright. He meets your eyes, and nods in the Death Knight's direction.

The Sword of the Creator whips like it has a will of its own.

The Death Knight falls, and you claim your victory.

*

It starts to feel like the end of the line.

Enbarr is the last stand.

Everyone's resolve hardens like steel. You remember the exhausted, battle-torn class when you awakened. Everyone is still exhausted, but it's all different when you fight for something you believe in.

Sylvain tells you as much, reflecting on ideals and how everyone has them. It's just like him, to think of the other side, the pain as well as the conflict. You think of the strategy game you once opened on your table, with tea on the side. Sylvain's mind constantly turns, weighs each side of a problem with surreal accuracy. His family is foolish for putting all his worth on his Crest, when you know Gautier rules a land of ice and infertile soil only rivaled by the House of Galatea. With Sreng pushing at the north, Sylvain represents so much more than war.

He still doesn't even know it.

You approach him outside, seeking him out in particular more and more often. You revel in subtle touches and hushed tones, never quite repeating that one night. You know that he's struggling, deciding on trust and pain and which side of the scale swings, and he knows that you have never done anything like this. Today, he's in the stables. His eyes soften like the setting sun when he sees you, and he pushes your wild hair behind your ear once you come close enough. He touches you like he has to decide if you're still there, like he's determining if you'll disappear.

It hurts and heals simultaneously.

"It won't be an easy battle, but let's be sure we come back alive." He runs a hand down your arm, leaving gooseflesh in his wake. "Right, Professor?"

Your smile weighs on you. "Think you can call me Byleth again after all this?"

Sylvain's answering smile is just as morose. "That was heat of the moment, and boy oh boy, that was a _moment –_ ow!"

You manage to locate a weak point in one of the greaves of his armor. You ram your elbow into it.

"I can consider it, though," he adds. "Then."

The words seem too light for what is between you. You swallow and curl your fingers around his wrist.

"That's good," you say quietly. "I'm glad."

You hear his horse nicker in the background. You have fought with the stallion just as much as his master, after all, and you begin to locate the nuances in his sounds. Ingrid's Pegasus eats hay with her wings neatly folded on her back. Dimitri's old mount, not so used anymore, has his head over the stall door. Ashe and Shamir's horses are somewhere in the back of their stalls. It's so quiet, so calm, yet never lonely. Did Sylvain take shelter from his brother in the stables back at home? From his parents? You have an urge to know everything about him, not just his quick intelligence and loose tongue and facades and steadfast loyalty to his friends. You know what makes up Sylvain, and you know who surrounded him, but he keeps his stories close to his chest, just like you.

 _Yes_ , you think. _That should change_.

"Okay," he says at last, and it's like he's read your mind. He tugs on your arm so that you look at him, then his hand slides up to your face. You flush, but hold his gaze. He cradles your jaw, sweeps a thumb up your cheekbone. His gauntlets are off, you notice. He rests his forehead on your hair.

You sigh and close your eyes.

"How about another promise," he says, and you hear a river of resolution backing his voice. "We win this, and Edelgard is defeated, and we get back to Garreg Mach and celebrate our victory. Before we get started on reparations and mending Fodlan, you meet me at the Goddess Tower at sunrise."

It is truly irresponsible to make a promise like this one. Either of you could perish, even under your watchful eye and power granted by the goddess. Most likely you, because you would bleed out before you see a single one of them fall, and that resolution steels when you breathe in Sylvain and how he surrounds you.

"Okay," you say anyway. "It's a promise."

You feel his fingers pressing up on your jaw, urgent but gentle, and you get to see the gold shift in his eyes before his lips meet yours.

Once again, sound unleashed from a cage of longing springs from your throat. He swallows it, eagerly, and you feel the wooden planks of the stall cradle your back as he presses you into it. Surrounded by steel and splintering wood, the sweet, cloying smell of alfalfa and hay and his aftershave in your nose, and his stallion nickers in the distance. It's familiar, it's close, and it's home.

He sighs into your mouth, one hand tangling in your hair, and you can't help but think that he's had plenty of practice. That you aren't the first. But you also think of how there's been no one else since, and you're _everywhere_ , you have to be. The girls disappeared the instant he read your father's journal.

You wonder if this is what it's like. The doubt, and then the certainty. Back and forth, never deciding on one. You hate it. You love it. Your life has been decided by cold, inevitable logic since long before you were born, and you never want Sylvain to be part of that.

You part, only a little, your breaths intermingling. His eyes are still closed, and you think that you can watch him forever.

"Sylvain!" you hear Felix shout. You both start, his eyes flashing open and your breath catching. "I know you're over here."

He steps back from you, and you ache. "That's my cue, Professor," he says softly, and you find yourself nodding. Even though you want to pull him back and forget about Felix, forget that he needs to train and keep himself alive. That Felix only wants the same thing for him.

Sylvain looks over his shoulder at you, once, as he walks away from you. You swallow. Felix turns when he catches up, and you begin to leave the opposite direction.

You actually jump when you find Gilbert, smiling in your direction. "I'll admit, Professor, that's something I never thought I would see."

Your blush takes over your face and reaches down to your neck. You are actually mortified, for the first time of your life. It occurs to you that all of your 'firsts' have been associated with Sylvain, for better or worse. You can't meet eye contact. Your throat feels heavy and thick and your stomach burns with an uncomfortable heat. You want to run. You want to sink into the ground.

"Now, now," Gilbert says, his voice gentle. "It's not a bad thing. I didn't mean to put that look on your face."

"Gilbert–" you try.

"He's happy with you," Gilbert says simply. He looks to the horizon. "Anyone can see that. And you are with him."

You pause, thinking. You know Gilbert's relationship with his family is complicated, even with his daughter so close in the monastery. You think that he could understand you, out of everyone here.

"I don't know what I'm doing," you admit. "Or how to behave."

He laughs. "That wildly depends from person to person, Professor," he says. "There isn't a right or wrong way to love someone."

 _Love._ That word feels heavy. It feels like a wild thing, out of your grasp, something that slips through your fingers.

"I don't know a thing about love," you admit.

He shrugs. "Here's a secret, Professor. No one does. And it changes, as you grow older and life gets harder." His face steels for a moment, then clears. "Enjoy the now. It's all any of us have."

You think about the strings of Divine Pulse first, but then about Sylvain's lips on yours. How you drink in his sighs. The way you catch him looking at you.

Gilbert looks to the sky now, so he doesn't see your smile. "It's always about what you have now," he says, more to himself than you. "And someone around here should have some happiness."

_\----_

_three._

Gilbert is wrong.

Not about you and Sylvain. You begin to grow comfortable in the quiet happiness you have. You make him drink tea with you and play that strategy game. He even beats you once. You consult him about strategy, just as often as you do with Dimitri and Gilbert. The only talk you avoid is about the future. And it always ends in one of you falling into the other, grasping and holding.

But Gilbert is wrong about the happiness of others. You find Dimitri and Flayn sitting closer than ever, talking quietly, their shoulders brushing and making no move to correct the simple action. You hear Annette singing in the greenhouse, and you don't have to look inside to know Felix is there, in a rare moment of not training, a small smile gracing his face. Dedue has strayed from Dimitri's side and lingers with Ashe and Mercedes, falling together effortlessly. They earn more than a few curious glances, but who are any of you to judge?

And Ingrid is mothering them all in between conversing with the Knights of Seiros, and she's so close to achieving her dreams when the war is over. The glow in her face is undeniable. This is the _promise_ of happiness, that the dawn will be bright and arduous when the night is over.

A dark, unfathomable night of six years. And it hasn't ended yet.

Nerves become more palpable as the day to invade Enbarr comes closer. Dimitri becomes grim, and even Flayn and Dedue cannot comfort him. He's pulling away, and you realize that this happiness can be a weapon against you. A tactical weakness. You look at Sylvain and the thought of losing him makes you stop breathing.

You think about your talks with Hanneman. You were so strong, the fear of other mercenaries, because of your inability to feel emotion or remorse. Your conscience was clear as you slaughtered enemies. There was no one to lose except your father, and the stakes were never so high as they are now.

Despite yourself, there is a part of you that wishes to go back. The guilt washes over you in foaming, rabid waves.

The only comfort is that it seems the others feel the same way. Before you meet Edelgard, you catch Felix's eyes darting towards Annette. Dedue, Ashe and Mercedes stand shoulder to shoulder to shoulder. Ingrid's expression is tense and drawn. Dedue still stands steadfast at Dimitri's side, and Flayn is constantly cooking him meals under Dedue's tutelage, but Dimitri has only one thing on his mind: talking with Edelgard, as one last act before you all slaughter each other. It hurts all of you.

The fact that Edelgard has even agreed to meet is astonishing.

When you head out, it ultimately amounts to nothing. Even childhood memories are not enough to sway her; she is resolute. It is fair, you suppose. So are the rest of you.

You think about weakness and the fear of losing a single person, and it raises a primal ferocity within that you don't recognize. It goes beyond the whims of Divine Pulse, this feeling within you, and it becomes a power that is as palpable as the Sword of the Creator. You are the Ashen Demon, you are battle incarnate, you are made of blood and the cries of the fallen, but you fight with a purpose now.

As you meet on the streets, Sylvain smiles at you and dips his head, his eyes flashing with the promise the two of you made. You think of that ferocity, the warmth that laps at your spine and jars your still heart. You realize that, of course, you love him, as much as someone like you is capable of, and perhaps Gilbert is right, perhaps that is enough.

You remember your father's gravestone. Your mother's ring. The hushed question from the sky, and your answer as sure as rain.

The Blue Lions, under one banner in body and mind, attack.

*

It is you who kills Hubert.

You all rampage the streets, but eventually slow down due to heavy reinforcements, ballistas, and magic. It should surprise you that the Adrestian army still flows in these kind of numbers, a relentless river, but you know that Edelgard and Hubert are the minds behind them. They are as forged from death as you, and once again, you wonder what might have been.

You think of flame red hair and whiskey eyes. You think of Dimitri's haunted gaze clearing into kindness and inner strength. You think of Gilbert, and the way he spoke of love and happiness.

It steadies your hand.

You do your best to avoid Petra, but she is fast and clever. You use one Divine Pulse to try and save her, but she does not falter. She fights for her country, across the border. Your heart is heavy as Felix strikes her down.

She leaves him something to remember her by: an arrow through the side. Annette heals him through gritted teeth, patching him up enough until he's in range of Mercedes. And dealing with Hubert is another matter.

His magic use was exemplary back in the academy days, and that holds true now. He hits you with a long range spell that sends you staggering, but you remain standing. You think of Sylvain, badly hurt but still upright, back when he protected Felix. You have full range of motion still, and you hear hooves pounding on the pavement behind you. The Sword of the Creator glows steady in your hands.

Another spell, and you barely dodge it. Dimitri still fights off to the side, surrounded on all sides by enemies. He's so strong, and Dedue and Flayn will reach him soon. You also know that if you kill Hubert, it won't matter anyway.

But he overwhelms you, leaves you little opportunity to advance. You get within his sights. His dark eyes are palpable with sick hatred, maniacal focus. A crooked smile takes over his face.

A shadow passes you, and Hubert spins around, but it's too late. A javelin soars through the air and pierces through his shoulder. Blood sprays the pavement, and he bellows like a wounded animal.

Sylvain huffs, and his horse careens with plodding steps. You don't have time to check for injuries. You reach into your heart, where faith magic has bubbled and overflowed, and unleash Aura, just like in Ailell.

When it's over, you rush over to Sylvain, but he isn't badly hurt. He swings off his mount easily, with no hiccups or jerks in his movements, and you cup his cheek with one hand. His expression softens, and he covers your hand with one of his gauntlets.

"I promised both of you," he says only, gesturing behind you. Felix rushes up and relaxes when he sees Sylvain and you in one piece. The swordsman rolls his eyes, but you catch the small smile he cannot hold back. The rest of the team approaches, and no one is worse for the wear.

Except in a desperate attempt to save Petra, it's one more battle you didn't need the Divine Pulse.

*

When you enter the throne room, that all changes.

You barely step inside before magic shatters and rips apart time and space around you. You cannot determine where it's coming from. You hear roars from the adjacent rooms. Demonic beasts. And you know. You know that you will watch the ones you care about die.

You bite your lip until you taste blood.

Ingrid shouts that she sees mages without their usual attire, and you send her into those rooms with Gilbert and Sylvain. His battalion speeds her up, but even then –

The air cracks, and Dedue screams.

So stoic and steadfast, but this terrible spell rips who he is asunder. Magic is still cracking the air as he falls to one knee, trembling, and Dimitri yells his name.

A savant sends a blade through Dedue's skull.

You rewind.

Annette wields Crusher into the savant, echoing splintering bone and rupturing his chest cavity, before he can reach Dedue. Mercedes is right there with a Physic, but Dedue still trembles from the magical devastation. He shrugs off Dimitri's hand, readying his axe, but you can see the minute shaking in his fingertips.

Then Dimitri cries out.

A different spell strikes him. This is coming from a different location: straight ahead, in the royal chambers. Edelgard. It has to be.

Mercedes yells a warning. Dimitri still stands, but his armor begins to smoke. Sylvain gallops his horse out of the side room at the same time as the beast inside stumbles and falls.

"The mage?" You ask him, and you raise your hands over Dimitri. But Sylvain already moves his hands, sewing sigils together.

It's a marvel, seeing it in action. A man who wanted to break bone and have his broken, now mending on the battlefield. Stranger still is seeing Felix heal, but anyone with an iota of magical talent heals on your battlefield now. It is a waste otherwise. Edelgard awaits, and it doesn't surprise you this is your greatest challenge yet.

"Dead," Sylvain says as Dimitri rolls his shoulder. "Ingrid got there and killed him before that beast could react. The mages with the black coats retreated, but..."

Another spell fires. It hits Gilbert this time, and his horse screams. Mercedes has a look of intense concentration on her face.

Felix yells for Dimitri to advance, and you think it funny that 'boar' is a term of endearment now. You and Dimitri look at each other and nod. You do have to advance, but carefully.

You know your comrades' screams will linger within you forever. Annette when Felix has a blade rip into his chest. Mercedes wails when Ashe falls, off in the next room, and her Physic can't help him, and Dedue races in his direction to inevitably die along with him. Each time, you grow more determined. You tighten your strategy. A single mistake becomes unacceptable.

The mages littering the throne room take considerable time to clear, but the second your army steps inside, Dimitri sees her before the rest of you do. Edelgard's monstrous form, and just how far she's willing to go for victory. You can see the horror on everyone's faces except Dimitri, whose mouth turns grim and eye narrows.

_We all have something unacceptable inside us, Professor._

You grit your teeth. Looking at Edelgard now is a mirror, a reflection of the people you've slaughtered to get here. You know that if it weren't for the people surrounding you, you would be like Dimitri before. Like Edelgard now. You know it deep in your bones, and it becomes a part of you as much as your still heart and stoic countenance.

But you _feel_ Sylvain beside you, waiting for you. You promised, after all. And you know Dimitri has his own. What does Edelgard have now? She is the one little more than an animal now, backed into a corner and dangerous because of it.

In the end, as always, the Blue Lions back up you and Dimitri, as the two of you charge up the steps.

Edelgard's beady, demonic eyes follow the Sword of the Creator as it whips around her. Dimitri wields Areadbhar effortlessly now, without thought. The two of you strike together, a single force united, until she dissolves into her proud, feeble self.

Dimitri reaches out to her, as you knew he would.

She lashes out with that dagger, as you knew she would.

He sends his lance into her stomach at the same moment the dagger enters his shoulder. Once again, when Dimitri is faced with the worst, you do not reach for Divine Pulse. You don't think you have the strength, and even if you did, this feels like the fate Sothis spoke of.

It's another thing for you to live with.

In the end, you take him by the hand and lead him outside, where the others are waiting. He only tries to turn back once, going back to demons that need to remain buried, and you pull on his arm. Perhaps, if you didn't have others – didn't have Sylvain – waiting for you, you would have let him go. You have struggled with the hypocrisy of your actions, after all.

_You are just like me._

_You are probably right._

You think of Kronya and Solon, Cornelia and Arundel, Hubert and Edelgard. You think of the truth that keeps Dimitri going, even though told only in fragments.

You watch as it pushes him into the light.

"I'm alright," he finally says, as if the throne room had rendered him mute. Perhaps it did, for the three of you. "Go find Sylvain."

You hesitate.

"He's waiting for you, too," Dimitri says, and as he does so, he spots Flayn in the crowd of soldiers.

You nod, and you jog down the stairs.

Sylvain dismounts from his stallion as he sees you approach, and you can feel his sigh of relief even at this distance. You fold yourself into his arms, and lean your forehead on his breastplate. You imagine his heartbeat, in place of your own.

_This is home._

The thought scares you, and then you relax.

_\----_

_four._

The next morning, Sylvain waits for you at the tower.

He notices you without needing to turn around. Your footsteps aren't loud. You still walk like a mercenary, like someone accustomed to shadows and sliding daggers between ribs. You feel yourself soften, as you have so often around him. He has grown so much, _seen_ so much, and yet here he is in the Goddess Tower, waiting for you. You respond to him with easy familiarity, but his words are hesitant and slow. You don't recognize this Sylvain.

He turns to face you. You read his expression in an instant. He looks so nervous.

When he shows you the ring in his palm, you freeze. Those same nerves that affect him wash over you. You trust Sylvain, _you do_ , but you cannot grasp that he would reach for someone like you. Someone who kills, who cannot rally with the same easy words he does, who cannot soothe his nightmares of dark, wet places and the freezing cold besides simply existing besides him. You look up at him, and something unfamiliar pricks your eyes.

No, not unfamiliar. You felt it once before, but for something so completely different.

"You really mean it?"

Something in his face caves and gives in, and you remember that there has been no one since that night in your room when the sky cracked open, and so did the two of you. You swallow. Sylvain's hurt turns into quiet determination, and that's when you see it. You are so used to seeing his pain turn into a dark smile, or a smooth expression, that he will later take and use as some kind of weapon against anyone and everyone. But this time, he steps into obscurity, where he cannot know the outcome.

He steps towards you.

Your breath leaves you in a loud _whoosh_ , and you meet him there. You show him a glimpse of the softness that, in turn, now exists within you.

"If you cheat on me," you say, and it comes out watery, "you'll pay dearly."

You see instantly, despite his words, he expected the answer _no_. His words wobble with hope, just like when you spoke about going to Derdriu with him, and he descends into old habits, ones that are no longer necessary.

You pull him back.

He grabs you to him and buries his face into your hair, the side of your neck. He promises to make you happy.

"I know," you breathe, and you tuck your nose underneath his jaw. You unfold his hand and take the ring, sliding it onto your finger. His exhale covers the side of your face. He curls into you like you hold the world in your hands.

He picks you up, one arm at your back and the other underneath your knees, and you let him do it. You let yourself into a state of vulnerability you would otherwise never allow. He brings you down the stairs.

"You're not committing blasphemy, accepting a waste of space like me?" he asks softly.

You snort, something that only happens in his presence. "I'm no goddess."

"You sure? Things were looking pretty hopeless, there. Then poof. You show up. And everything changes." His tone turns somber. "You changed me."

You bite your lip. You love Sylvain. You know that now. Even with nothing to compare it to, there is no other name for how you feel. How your spine straightens and locks into place at the sight of him. How your pulse hammers. How your mind softens and, for once, doesn't think of killing. You still struggle with the belief, the enormity of it in your chest. Especially with a heart that doesn't beat and has only begun to learn how to feel.

You tuck your head into Sylvain's neck. "You're not a waste of space," you mumble.

Because he struggles with belief, too. He is quiet until you reach the bottom of the steps. He doesn't put you down.

"I don't know if I have the right to accept," you continue. "You've seen for yourself. I'm not really human."

He tenses around you, but you keep talking.

"All we can do is try, right?" You keep looking away. You swallow. You commit his breath to memory. He takes you in the direction of your room. It is quite possibly one of the last nights you'll stay there.

When you're in your room, he puts you on your bed. You finally meet his eyes.

"You were born from love," Sylvain says at last, and something seizes in your chest. "That's more than a lot of Fodlan nobles can say. And you reached out to a group of people who were lost, Byleth. That's pretty human, if you ask me."

You swallow. There's your name, finally, and it does things to you that you want around forever.

"I want to change things," you say, speaking around the lump in your throat. No more Miklan, no more Those Who Slither in the Dark. You have seen enough, through Dimitri and Sylvain and Ingrid and Mercedes and the others. Sylvain pulls at straps and buckles through his armor, and after a few moments, you assist.

"I'll help you," he says.

"Yeah?" You look up at him.

"Taking responsibility for my own fate, right?" He shrugs out of his armor and piles it on the ground, in easy reach. He lies down next to you and closes his eyes. "I'm in a position to help you. Maybe I can actually use it for good."

You nod. You reach for your nightstand, where your mother's ring waits on a chain. You offer it to him, and his eyes catch on the gleaming silver.

"This was my mother's," you tell him quietly. "I want you to have it."

He swallows, and then he takes it. He wraps the chain around his fist so that he can pull you in his arms again.

"We probably need to head out with the army," you say, but you make no effort to move.

"Just a little while longer," he replies, tightening his grip. "A few more moments."

When you do move out, you see the gleam of the silver chain around his neck.

_\----_

_five._

The reordering of your lives comes in quick succession.

You accept the title of Archbishop, with some misgivings, in the rebuilt Cathedral, with the Knights of Seiros and the devout villagers in attendance. You close your eyes, imagining Sothis is there with you, and when you open them, you fixate on Sylvain. He smiles, open and bright, and it's far more beautiful than the frivolities surrounding you.

Then you travel to Fhirdiad, where Dimitri's coronation is to take place. It's a far grander affair. People come pouring out into the streets of the city, and you give your blessing, or whatever that means. This kingdom is holy, you know, but you are out of place. Dedue stands near, as always, and they are both decorated in scars they earned for each other just as much as the regalia. And then there's Flayn, in a beautiful white dress you know she's dreamed of for an eternity. You say little, and do little beyond the tradition you barely read over the night before. This day is Dimitri's, not yours.

Sylvain stands off to the side, and you think he doesn't want to take any attention for himself. But then you see who else is in the room. Felix is the new duke of Fraldarius. Annette's family is here, united with Gilbert at last. Ingrid's father, gaunt and weathered, stands with one hand on his daughter's shoulder. Ashe and Mercedes are alone, with Dedue standing with the new king, but they have their hands tucked together. And then...

"Your father," you murmur.

He nods.

You should have guessed. From the bright, blood red hair, and the cold, haughty eyes. You remember how he ordered Sylvain to deal with his brother's bandits alone, as if Miklan was his penance to pay.

Your lip curls, and Sylvain notices.

To your surprise, Felix and Annette announce their engagement after the days of celebrating have ceased. Sylvain grins without restraint, the apprehension of being so close to his father washing away.

"He beat us to it," he complains, but he doesn't mean a word. He would never begrudge Felix, of all people, this moment of happiness.

You squeeze his fingers. "Our turn is coming."

You wear his ring on your neck, just like him, because you have business as the Archbishop to handle first. Sylvain's gaze softens as he looks at you, the sunlight vivid in the snowy backdrop. You are in the gardens, and should be out of sight. It is one of the few moments you can afford to steal away. The two of you have plans. Change is coming to Faerghus, and it's the whole reason you accepted the crown of Archbishop in the first place.

"You know," he says in a light tone, "I've never been good at being patient."

You smile at him. "I am."

He sighs, long-suffering, but he cannot disguise the joy radiating off of him. "You have to at least let me take you for a ride."

"That sounds nice."

Sitting in front of Sylvain in the saddle takes you back, to when life was simple and you rode on Jeralt's horse. You are wistful, contemplative, but you lean back against Sylvain anyway. His breath fans across your hair, and you smile up at him.

He always looks in awe, because he's the one who put it there.

His stallion picks his way through the woods. Sylvain slackens his hold on his reins. You've never had the chance until now to see the trust they share up so close.

"They repay your absolute love and trust with the same," you murmur, patting his neck. You feel Sylvain stiffen behind you. He's dressed softer than the war mandated. You can feel every coil of muscle, every beat of his heart, the feeling of his breath. You wonder if it's terrible that it sends a thrill down your spine.

"You remember that, huh?" he whispers, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"It wasn't that long ago for me."

The forests of Faerghus are like the tales in Ashe's books, but you feel the treachery and cold behind them. The pines stand resolute in soil that can grow little else, each crested with tops of snow. You can see your breath, entangling with the crisp air and wispy clouds. You notice how Sylvain feels right at home in this kind of cold, in the unforgiving and unrelenting landscape. Something occurs to you.

"But it was that long ago for you," you say. You crane your head so you can meet his eyes, and they are darker than usual, even reflecting snow and sunlight. "You remember?"

He lets out a long exhale, the kind that eventually rips on the way out. "I remember everything I've said to you," he replies, and his free arm closes around your middle. "It's like I said. I'm pretty surprised you said 'yes' to me."

You decide to challenge it. "Why?"

"You have to ask?"

You raise your hand, reaching behind you to meet his cheek. "Yes."

"If you haven't noticed, Byleth," he says dryly, "I don't know how to do much else but charm and lie, even if it's toward the people I love dearly." He pauses. "Actually, especially if it's towards the people I love dearly."

Hearing your name still makes you flush, even more than the word _love_. You shrug, trying for unaffected and failing. "I don't know how to do anything else but kill. And yet, here we are."

He erupts into startled laughter. You smile, despite yourself, because warmth in Sylvain blinds like the sun. "You know just what to say."

You test words out, feel them around in your mouth. "You love me?"

He tightens his grip on you, tucks his face into your neck. This is where he feels safest, you know. His breathing smooths out, even grows deeper. "I do."

Something weighs heavy in your throat. Swallowing makes it worse.

"Not that I have anything to compare it with," he adds. "Besides our friends. You love me?"

"Not that I have anything to compare it with," you mimic, but your voice trembles. He looks up from your neck, his eyes serious and calm. You realize he's waiting for an answer. Sylvain deserves so much more than you can give him. He deserves light and prosperity and stability and the promise that everything will be okay. But you can give him this.

"I do," you whisper.

Sylvain pulls his horse to a halt, and you feel two arms wrapping around you and lifting up. You go with the motion, exercising absolute trust, until you're both on the ground. Then his lips meet yours, and you breathe in his sigh, and your back is pressed into the bark of a pine tree.

You are out in the cold of Faerghus, standing on barren soil and faltering life, and yet you are so warm you feel like you could die from it.

You anchor Sylvain to you, your hands meshing into his hair, and you drown in him.

*

When you return, you find that Ashe and Mercedes have run off to be together, away from Mercedes' father. Dedue has lingered only to finish business for Dimitri, and then he will join them.

"For Saints' sake," Sylvain says, exasperated.

But like you said earlier, there's something the two of you have to do.

Politics are a new kind of battlefield, you discover, as you meet with various lords under Dimitri's reign. They are slow to warm up to change, or, in Gautier's case, not at all. Sylvain's father meets you with a taut smile and empty eyes, not unlike his son at his worst.

_You love me?_

The ring under your Archbishop dress burns hot as you meet his gaze, unflinching. The Ashen Demon is a convenient guise to call up, but you hope that you have less reason to use it as time goes on. Just as you hope that Sylvain will not have to summon those horrible smiles and smooth expressions again.

It occurs to you that you haven't told him about Rodrigue, about the Divine Pulse.

Something in you falters. It's true, that all you know is war. And here, this is its own kind of war. A discussion of policy, of the future of Faerghus, of a place where the Alliance and Empire are dissolved. You swallow, and the Margrave's expression flickers with triumph at what he clearly perceives as weakness.

Your eyes narrow.

When you sit over a piping meal, average and considered a Faerghus delicacy, you think of Ingrid's terrain, poor and starving. You think of Mercedes, who lost everything at the whims of one man. And of course, you think of Sylvain, thrown at bandits and Sreng like he is nothing but a weapon.

Dimitri speaks of peace at the table, and the lesser lords meet his words with smiles and nods. You scan their faces, like they are on the field with arrows nocked and swords raised. Only Felix's face is stone, and even Annette's usual cheer is beginning to falter.

Sylvain sits opposite you, near his father. The topic of Sreng comes up, and he tenses. Your memory is still something that can only depended on in flickers, and it overwhelms you now.

_I had to. Don't hate me, please._

"With a united Fodlan, we now have to consider a relation with nations outside our own," you say, thinking of Claude, who has left to what you now know to be Almyra.

"Surely you don't mean Sreng," the Margrave says in a haughty tone, and something like a blade flashes in Sylvain's eyes. Felix lifts his chin, eyes glinting, and you know he saw the same thing. He protects Sylvain almost as fiercely as you.

"I am quite weary of our relations up north," Dimitri says coldly. "How we view them led to the assassination of almost an entire people. And I have heard nothing that suggests Fodlan treats anyone else any better."

The Margrave does not have the courage to speak against the King.

"Peace will be made with Sreng," you say with finality. "And it will be upheld."

The Margrave fights, like he has his entire life. Sylvain watches as if he were watching a spectating sport instead of his father.

"What will be the function of Gautier?" he blurts out, finally, after you and Dimitri deflect him for some time.

"I understand your fear," you say. "Your Crest is your entire existence, is it not? Regardless, Gautier will be used to promote peace in Sreng. Encourage trade. Work together. Make it so that the Tragedy of Duscur never has to happen again. Perhaps if Fodlan stops seeing outsiders as monsters, we can make such a thing possible."

He continues to sputter.

It bodes well that you feel sick to your stomach, you think grimly. A weapon that balks at unnecessary blood. "Your son will be quite adept at making such a thing happen," you say.

"You have Fraldarius's support," Felix says, with surprising diplomacy.

"And Dominic's, of course," Annette adds. They work well together, with Annette softening Felix's edges and Annette bolstered by Felix's ferocity.

And of course, there is nothing the Margrave can say when Dedue is standing behind Dimitri and Flayn sits beside him. Still, he makes the attempt. "My son can only fight."

Sylvain's face cracks open in hatred, and you hate it, _you hate it._ In a moment you want to throw away the Sword of the Creator and lock up the Lance of Ruin, and never wage war again. You know it cannot last, but for a moment, you imagine your pulse as your heartbeat.

"You held the line against the Empire, and for that, we are grateful," Dimitri says stiffly, and you remember Sylvain asking about his father's health. After all he's been through, he still thought of the family that always turned their backs on him. "But now is the time for change. You can either change along with us, or be left behind. The Kingdom will forge forward, with the Church's aid."

The task is daunting. You were never meant to lead a _religion_ , and even Sothis would agree. But you think of dark, wet places and frozen tundras, where Sylvain managed to survive. You think of children like him. Ingrid and Mercedes suffered in their own ways. This is your family, and there's not much you won't do to protect them.

You take a deep breath. "Take heart, Margrave," you say. "The church will take a personal interest in Gautier."

Dimitri chokes on his tea.

Sylvain grins at you, and claps a hand on his father's shoulder. "I did exactly what you always expected of me. I hope you're proud."

You watch as realization dawns on the Margrave's face.

You smile. Felix rolls his eyes, but Annette's grin is almost as wide as Sylvain's. Ingrid stares at the ceiling, but she's fighting back her own smile.

"Now that that's settled," you say, settling back into your seat. "There's the matter of Galatea. I think there's some modifications we can make there too..."

As you continue eating and talking, Sylvain stands up and circles the table. He slides into the empty seat next to yours.

"Only good for battle, huh?" he mutters under his breath.

You shrug. "This is battle, too."

He chuckles. His father stares at the two of you. He says precious little for the rest of the meeting.

*

Later, you find him in his guest room. He sweeps you into his arms, just holding, and you slowly learn what Sylvain needs. A presence, something there and to hold. You can do that. You start to feel empty without his breath on your skin.

"I actually have hope for the future now," he tells you.

You exhale. "Good."

_\----_

_six._

The Margrave stubbornly holds on to his rights to the land.

"I don't know why," Sylvain mutters when the two of you are back in Garreg Mach, for further reconstruction and mobilizing the Knights of Seiros. "You've outright forbidden him to continue battle."

"You know why," you say heavily.

The Margrave holds onto his pride. He cannot admit that Miklan died for nothing, had been disinherited for nothing. He cannot let go of his Crest and Sylvain's, as if holding Sylvain's blood gave him possession over him. Your teeth grit together at the thought. Sylvain's ring now sits on your finger, at least, and Sylvain wears your mother's ring on its chain for all to see.

You sit quietly on the Archbishop's bed, which entirely too big for you. It is not proper for Sylvain to sneak into this room, but he does so anyway. You are not one for propriety, and you wouldn't dream of stopping him. He stands off in the middle of the room, staring at the door, thinking.

"I told you that I rode to Sreng with a white flag to start peace negotiations, right?" he said at last.

"Yes." You fold your hands in your lap. A habit, from professor days and meeting with students. "How did it go?"

Sylvain sighed and sat next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. "As well as it could have, I think. The only reason they didn't kill me on the spot was because I was unarmed and I went without a battalion, like you suggested."

"They're scared," you say quietly. "Fighting for centuries, having their land annexed, the war Dimitri's father fought..."

"King Lambert wasn't a bad king, but he was a conqueror," he said. "And with Duscur being so close, they had every right to hate me for coming."

"You made it out, though," you pointed out.

He deepens his voice in that way you recently decided you love. "With my roguish charm and good looks, how can't I?"

Your fight back a smile. "There are a few reasons I sent you."

"I knew it." He throws an arm around your waist, and yanks you to his side. You let out a less-than-dignified squeak. "You can't resist me."

"I thought that had been established," you grumble, but you lean your head against his chest. "It had to be a Gautier, though. Your family has been–"

"Responsible for upholding the conflict, yeah," he says. "We've gone over it. I know."

"I never wanted you to do these kinds of things alone," you tell him. "I didn't let it happen at the monastery."

Sylvain presses a kiss into your hair. "I had someone to come back to this time around," he says quietly. "It's all good. Besides, we have the groundwork laid out for when I inherit."

"I'm going with you next time," you decide. "Now that they know we are willing to talk with them."

"They're going to want land," Sylvain muses. "I'm sure we can reach a compromise there. Gautier doesn't need the all the extra territory, especially with Fodlan under one banner. We can divide our houses differently."

You nod. Your mind whirls with the possibilities. You have already had multiple discussions with the lords about this. Reconstructing Fhirdiad remains a priority, because Cornelia's reign tore it apart. The city needs resources, soldiers, supplies, reconstruction efforts, healers. Skirmishes have been breaking out with leftover Empire soldiers and those strange mages. Then bandit problems, Demonic beasts, great wolves and birds...

It gives you a headache thinking about it all, but Sylvain's input has proven to be invaluable. You expect nothing else.

"Felix is sending resources, like crops and building materials, to Fhirdiad," you say slowly. "I told him his efforts are better spent in Galatea and Gautier."

Sylvain raises his eyebrows. "For the old man?"

"He's been stretched pretty thin, constantly fighting Sreng, right? The more he has to rebuild for peace, the less he can complain about the white flag."

A contemplative gleam enters Sylvain's eyes. "Maybe I should talk to Felix about trade," he suggests. "Opening up routes can't hurt our relations, and it'll help Fhirdiad too. If he gives the order, my father can't argue. Less so if His Highness backs him up."

You smile at him. He's taken to diplomacy like a fish takes to a stream. You feel out of place, but he is easing the growing pains, bending the curve so that you can grow through it.

"You didn't have much to worry about," he says suddenly.

"What?"

"You're a natural leader," he says. "You can heal as well as kill. That's plain to see."

You bite your lip for a moment, and then let it go. You still haven't told Sylvain about Divine Pulse. That is the only secret you keep from him. It's the proof that healing and killing exists on the same coin for you, with dreadful choices that, for some reason, Sothis saw you fit to make.

Seeing how soft and gentle Sylvain has become, you decide to keep it to yourself. This deadly edge, that ensured Rodrigue died to save Dimitri. This part of you that you should never have had, even less than the title of Archbishop. You will keep the biggest proof of war close to your chest, and never hurt him with it.

It is your burden to bear, as it has been all these years.

"So are you," you say at last.

Sylvain begins to shake his head, to protest, but you hush him.

"The others began to look to you for leadership in the war," you continue. "I don't know if I should be leading an entire church, but maybe it will be okay if it's with you by my side."

Sylvain lets out a bout of laughter that sounds like its made of more breath than mirth. "I told you I always thought it'd be Dimitri," he says. "Who would win you over."

You chuckle. "No. This is right."

That's how your story would have been told in Ashe's books. You would have met Dimitri and felt a strange, impossible connection, and would have brought him back from the brink of insanity. But you think of the man who always stood by you, who thought of you when you were gone, and then approached you even though you know it scared him more than anything else. Sylvain is enough. He will never believe it, but he's more than enough.

The ring on your finger sparkles in the overhead light. You stand, reaching for his hand. "Come. More diplomacy meetings."

"You know just how to convince a man," Sylvain drawls.

But he takes your hand and follows you outside.

_\----_

_seven._

Your wedding takes place the following moon.

You let Mercedes and Annette fuss over you, and Ingrid watches from the back of your room with wide, unblinking eyes. She's more scared than you are, as you let the other women pull you about and apply rouge, charcoal, henna.

"Ingrid," Annette barks. She is newly married herself, a simple band catching the overhead light. "Stop being such a wallflower and _help me_."

It's a small affair in Fhirdiad, compared to Dimitri and Flayn's marriage. But the people need the wedding of the Archbishop almost as much as the King's, and the two of you know it. Sylvain's father will abdicate his seat the following year, and the less room Sylvain gives him to work with, the better. You reach for yourself in the mirror. You're not used to this much _lace_ , even with your stockings. The dress is suited for you, though. It shows just enough skin and offers you at least some mobility.

"Alright, people," Annette says, securing your hair with one last bobby pin. "Let's do this. Part... how many weddings are we on, now?"

Mercedes chuckled. Her ceremony with Ashe and Dedue was outside of tradition, just like them. _It's unusual, but we are happy,_ she had told you, and that's all you need to hear. _Just a few commoners_ , she also said, but that wasn't true at all. She was helping build churches in Duscur, lending you a hand in the more pious endeavors, and Ashe had given up knighthood to build inns, rebuilding their culture. They were doing important work, and when they had returned for your wedding, Sylvain picked Mercedes up and spun her into a circle. Dimitri and Flayn are here too.

You could only laugh. That's a blessing of a wedding, you think. Everyone you love is in close quarter.

But as the time comes, and you find yourself walking through the hallways, you realize that the true blessing is the look on Sylvain's face. His eyes are bright, and he's smiling so big, and you find yourself wishing that your father can see this. That somewhere, Sothis can hear you and tell him to watch.

He warned you about men like Sylvain, after all.

He could have told you that breaking down their defenses reveal something broken, but with potential. That loyalty and warmth revealed lies behind a weathered facade. That shining a stone repeatedly cannot make a diamond, but patience and friendship could.

You regret nothing, you know.

The two of you dance with no one outside of your Blue Lion classmates. Several women try with Sylvain, and he pushes away each one with a tender smile.

"I deserve it," he says wryly when he gets to dance with you again.

You shrug. "At least you do know."

He laughs. "If I could do it all over again..."

You shake your head. "I wouldn't change a thing."

His eyes flicker, then soften. You still can't believe you get to fall into his eyes for a lifetime.

_You must accept it as fate._

"Each step got us to this point," you say. "All for our future, right?"

Sylvain somehow brings you closer, flush against him. "I really cannot wait until I get to be alone with you."

"Soon," you say.

He looks over your shoulder. "Hey," he says, and you look in the same direction. Felix is swaying with Annette. "Think you can get Felix to dance?"

It's late by the time you can escape into your shared room in the royal palace. You open the door to a large bed, complete with a canopy of sheer fabric and a frame of pinewood. Your feet sink into the plush carpet, and once again, you're thinking how big the bed is...

 _We are too used to bedrolls,_ you have time to think, before Sylvain pushes the door closed and tilts your head up to meet his mouth.

"You are so beautiful," he whispers into your lips, and you push off his jacket, start unbuttoning his dress shirt. He laughs at how eager you are as he gently pulls pins out of your hair, letting it flow wild over your shoulders.

Your dress is left behind on the floor when he pushes you onto the bed, mapping out your skin with his lips and fingers, and you sigh a breathy moan, winding your fingers through his hair to anchor him in place. Your mind is swept blank, and Sylvain groans near your hip.

"Saints, Byleth," he breathes, and you look down at him.

"Say my name again," you whisper.

He does, _he does,_ and he climbs up your body to sink into you. Your mouth falls open, and he bites down on your shoulder. His breaths heave, and as you press your fingers into the muscles of his back, you can feel the minute trembling.

 _If I am the sea,_ you think as Sylvain moves above you and you wrap your legs around his waist, remembering Flayn's words, _then he is a lighthouse. A constant source of light, a reminder that there is always solid ground._

When you are both sated, Sylvain slumps to your side, his shoulder and arm thrown across you. You turn your head to reach his neck, and press a kiss below his ear.

"I love you," he whispers.

You feel so full your eyes water.

"I love you," you whisper back, and he tucks his head into your neck. The two of you fall asleep like this, safe and warm and happy, without thoughts of diplomacy and battle.

It cannot last, you think, at least not this feeling of safety. But you know Sylvain will be here, through it all, a truth that speaks to your bones.

You fall asleep with him.

_\----_

_eight._

There are skirmishes against what remains of the Empire, as you and Sylvain thought there would be. Bandits also attack Gautier, as vulnerable they are in a stalemate with Sreng, and with the resources Garreg Mach and Fraldarius are pouring into trade with the neighboring country, they are an obvious point of weakness.

For each one, you ready your battle gear.

Seteth tries to stop you at first, _you_ , a holy terror on the battlefield. He has accompanied you to Fhirdiad, as an advisor and a friend, and now, it seems, as an obstacle. "It is a risk you do not need to take, Byleth," he protests, putting a hand on your shoulder. You narrow your eyes at it, before relaxing. He is legitimately concerned, you know, but it is misplaced. You put your hand over his and remove it.

"This is my husband's lands," you say. Sylvain's father finally relinquished his hold on Gautier recently. You know he had waited for your engagement to his son to disintegrate, for Sylvain to fall back into old habits. Of course, he hasn't. It's quite the talk in the first territories of Faerghus, that you managed to tame the man who jumped into bed with women and men alike.

"You risk too much," Seteth urges.

"Fodlan deserves a church that will fight with its people," you shoot back. "The days of quietly mastering the strings in the background are over."

You take the Sword of the Creator. For the first time, you hope that the days of using it are coming to an end.

"You are quite powerful," Seteth acknowledges. "I just wish you would put some thought in what would happen in the event of your death."

You soften for a moment. Seteth has been an invaluable advisor while you stumble through the ruling of the Church of Seiros, administering gentle reminders and hosting long, arduous, tedious lectures about the finer details of religion. You begin to understand your students' glazed eyes from so long ago, Sylvain often one of them. With Flayn as queen, he has plenty of cause for concern in both the church and the Kingdom. Regardless...

You swallow. The threads of Divine Pulse still hum within you, but you haven't had cause to use them in a long while. "I survived a war, Seteth."

He dips his head. "That you have."

"Fodlan deserves leaders who will fight for their people," you say, gentle but firm. You are not Rhea, you will never be Rhea, and Seteth has to live with this. "They need something more to believe in."

Seteth's eyes flash, but he says nothing. You know he is conflicted. Rhea was – is – a dear friend to him, but she kept secrets. She did terrible things. It was under her rule that the land was divided; Edelgard had that much right.

"I'll see you soon," you tell him, and when you leave, he does not stop you.

*

On the field, it astonishes you how little has changed.

You scan for cover, trees and rocks, as well as the crudely fashioned barricades. The grass is trampled from how many feet have been on it. Your enemy has that focused look in their eyes; what they're doing is what they perceive to be right. Some have trembling in their fingers, others are resolute. They all stare at you, with hair and eyes like beacons for your people. After the war, it is unmistakable who you are.

It's jarring, having all of Fodlan know your name.

Somehow, it makes it harder for you to take life. It is less like battle and more like passing down judgment, in the harsh and infallible way Rhea did. This is not you.

The only comfort is that not many behind you fall.

This enemy is little prepared. They are leftover soldiers from the Empire, and revenge is the only thing that possesses their minds. This makes them dangerous, you know. Perhaps Those Who Slither in the Dark pull their strings, and you strike with more resolve.

Sylvain brings reinforcements after the fighting begins in earnest, when the soldiers are more focused on who they are battling than their surroundings. Your pulse leaps when you catch the sight of that shock of red hair, long enough now to brush his neck. Bolganone crackles from his fingertips.

The fighting itself doesn't take long. This is not an ambush on a city, although you know that might be coming. These soldiers are so sparse, so scattered. You wonder if this is a decoy, and if Seteth might be right. If you are risking too much.

You shake these feelings off. Ingrid and Seteth are often scouting the lands for any signs of a resistance. It is how you know this battle would take place. Those Who Slither in the Dark are just biding their time, and when they move, you'll be ready.

You falter when you see a flash of light.

It is not the Sword of the Creator. It keeps its steady glow in your hand. You look down at your chest, and then you see it.

The pulsing glow is coming from _within_ you.

You swallow, and falter, almost letting a soldier thrust a lance through your skull. You dodge at the last second, and your sword whips out. You have to keep fighting, you know, no matter how wrong you feel.

When it comes to an end, Sylvain stops his horse beside you. He dismounts, and you know from his eyes that he's checking you over.

"I saw that soldier," he asks, and he sounds far away. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you respond. "Let's check on your units.

As he does so, though, he's constantly looking back at you, as though you might disappear on him on any second. It hurts you to see it; that he saw a rare moment of weakness from you, and now fears for your life. He never asked you to not fight, not once, but he does not have your power were you to perish on the field. It makes you consider Seteth's words, as your fingers twist his ring on your left hand.

For the first time, you think of the other women. With hitched skirts and carefully manicured nails and bright eyes. With little expectations, easy victims to your husband's emptiest smile. Someone able to be molded, gives more than she takes, thinks little of the future except dowry money for her family. Someone who knows nothing of the horrors of war.

Not for the first time, you wonder why Sylvain would want you, something little more than the sharpest blade on the battlefield.

But these thoughts are not like you, and you shove them aside. You have promised him a future you knew you would have to carve out yourself. And you know that Sylvain looks at you the same way, not on the field but in peacetime, no doubt wondering why you have selected a noble stranded north when you might have had something else. He doesn't understand he is everything, this shattered dream who puts himself aside, again and again, to build something better. You sheathe your sword, and he mounts his horse. You place your hand on his horse's neck, coat glossy with exertion, feeling his breath come out in accelerated puffs. Something in your action makes Sylvain relax.

No one else sees the glow tucked under your armor, but you are ever aware of it as you clean up this battle.

*

When you return to Fhirdiad, you demand to see Seteth and Hanneman.

Seteth freezes when you pitch your armor, leaving your undershirt, seeing the throbbing red from the inside. You recognize it as a heartbeat, but when you put your hand on your chest, you still feel nothing.

The glow is fading, and you do not know why this sends panic like Thoron through you. Hanneman tests, borrows hair and a prick of blood, which you give willingly. You know something is happening. Something big.

Before your coronation, you had gone to Zanado. You had wanted to see Rhea, but you also half hoped you could hear from Sothis again. You did not, but Rhea told you the truth of who you are. She told you of the Crest Stone in your chest, the weapon you wield. It made you determined to realize the future Sylvain dreams of, where Crests and Relics simply don't matter. Where someone can be someone without the blood and bones and beating hearts of those slain so long ago.

You will never see Rhea again. You cannot. She fostered the suffering of so many, because she could not see beyond her own.

The title of Archbishop isn't so grand anymore.

Now, though, Seteth thaws. He watches your examination with narrowed eyes. He watches the pulsing glow in your chest, and his eyes dart up to meet your eyes. "Hanneman."

Hanneman stops his examinations, and looks up. You are following along the best you can, trying to make sense of the lines and curves that make up the Crest of Flames.

Then it hits you, and you gasp.

"Fetch Manuela," Seteth says quietly.

_You know I am the beginning. What will you do?_

Hanneman leaves the room. You stare at Seteth, and let out a long, shuddering breath.

"You possess the heart of a goddess," he says.

You let out an exhale. "That's why it doesn't beat."

Seteth smiles. "Perhaps it does, in a fashion, to foster another."

You can scarcely breathe. Seteth's smile grows wider, his eyes softening, and you let out a shuddering exhale.

"You must have had a close call on the battlefield," Seteth says.

Seteth has become invaluable to you, a mentor you never saw coming. His strict mannerisms and borderline obsessive lectures always threw you off before, but his counsel has aligned himself with you until you cannot separate your duties of Archbishop from him.

You inhale a shuddering breath. "Perhaps you were right."

"It's a relief to be correct about something pleasant, for once," Seteth responds, almost conversationally. "Although I never thought I'd see anything separate you from battle."

You hum in response, and the nerves flicker like butterflies in your stomach. As a rule, you don't get nervous. You are under the impression you never knew how.

You wait for Manuela.

*

It's telling that the minute Sylvain steps into your chambers, you relax.

You will travel to Gautier tomorrow, and maybe after tonight, he won't let you go anywhere on foot. You relax on the upholstery, although your shoulders hold a thin line of tension. It's too much to ask that Sylvain wouldn't notice.

He stares at you. "Okay. What's up? That soldier hurt you?"

You can't help it. You chuckle. He relaxes, only by the smallest of margins, and approaches you. You notice that each day, his gait becomes smoother and easier. Each day he realizes a little more you are not a wild animal that will bolt from the demons hiding deep within Sylvain.

"Have you even sat in that chair before?"

It's an excellent question. You cannot recall, and you frown up at the ceiling. He laughs, low and deep, in the way you love and gets under your skin.

"Come here," you say.

"Stealing my line?" he teases, but he listens and stops by the arm of your chair.

Then he sees it.

"By," he says. "What's that?"

You've told him about your conversation with Rhea, of course. He had waited for you outside of Zanado.

"It's my heart," you say, keeping your voice even. You are grateful you have kept your ability to keep your emotions masked.

"I can see that," Sylvain replies. His brow furrows as he frowns, and he tilts his head. You remember the days of your one-on-one training sessions. "Like, literally. I can see it. Why can I see it?"

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. "Something happened." Your laughter dies when you see fear flash through his eyes. "Something good," you add, and he relaxes, shaking his head.

"You can't do that to me, love," he says.

"I'm sorry." You take a deep breath. How do you tell him? How do you tell a man who only knows his past as something dark and terrifying? He kneels to the ground beside you, and your hand goes into his hair.

"Seteth said..." Your voice breaks. "Seteth said that it's because it's sustaining life other than mine. It's dimmer because I'm not in danger anymore, but... but it's going to be there for a while."

"Sustaining... life..."

You can see it hit him like a Ragnarok spell. You anchor yourself in his hair, lying in wait like a coil. Suddenly, he's in front of you, his dark eyes bright and unfocused.

"Byleth," he says, and you hold his face between your hands.

"Breathe," you murmur. His hands reach up to wrap around yours.

"Goddess," he whispers, and a sound that sounds like a laugh mixed with a sob escapes him. "Goddess."

And you know what he feels, because you know him better than you know yourself. You feel the joy radiating from him like waves of heat, but you also know he is thinking of Miklan. Of his family. Of Mercedes and Ingrid and perhaps even himself. Left to die, used as a weapon, manipulated then thrown away, because of how he was born. Privileged and coveted, but never for the right reasons.

"Has..." Sylvain swallows, and he doesn't meet your eyes. "Has Hanneman...?"

You wait. He begins to ramble, as he is wont to do.

"Usually you have to be a certain age to be tested, but if anyone can figure out earlier, it's Hanneman."

You start shaking your head before he even finishes speaking, and you pull on his jaw to face you again.

"I don't know," you say, voice low. "And I don't care."

Now, it's more tears than laughter. You press your lips to his forehead.

"This is the future," you tell him, as sure as you have ever been. "You are the peacekeeper of the north. I am the leader of the church. Crest or no Crest, this child will be loved. By you, by me, and all of Fodlan."

Sylvain collapses forward, pressing his face into your chest, wrapping his arms around your middle. He is so, so careful, so gentle, and you rest your forehead on the crown of his head, unconsciously matching your breath to his own.

As his breath evens, you think of peace. You think of Fodlan, that has never been land who belonged to all, noble and commoner alike. You think of your Blue Lions, ensuring lives they never had, and of course, you feel a swelling in your chest when you take in Sylvain and how he feels.

He lifts his head, kisses you like you're everything he's ever needed, presses you into the chair, and you can't stop yourself from smiling. The future no longer holds just you, lost in the wilderness.

You can't wait to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, funny story, this was supposed to be a oneshot. XD
> 
> Sylvain is probably the character who surprised me the most this game. I went from despising him to loving him, and I wanted to do his arc justice. Hopefully this is it. This story literally poured out of me in like a month. It wouldn't let me go. It's also my first attempt at second person, which was nerve-wracking. But it's good experience.
> 
> Title is from the song by Woodkid. Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/khatira_x)


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